UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

C.   G»  De  Garmo 


IP?S«£M* 


<*' 


)VENTURES   IN  CONTENTMENT 


The  place  of  the  rushes  and  the  flags  " 


ADVENTURES 
IN  CONTENTMENT 

By 

DAVID  GRAYSON 


Illustrated  by 
THOMAS  FOGARTY 


NEW  YORK 
GROSSET  &  DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1906,  1907,  BY 
THE  PHILLIPS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY- 


COPYRIGHT,  1907,  BY 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 
PUBLISHED,  NOVEMBER,  1907 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

INCLUDING  THAT  OF  TRANSLATION  INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES 
INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 


INTRODUCTION 

"  I  think  I  could  stop  here  myself  and  do  miracles." 

I  HAVE  been  for  eight  years  a  farmer.  Dur 
ing  that   time  and  without  the  ulterior 
motive  of  publication,  but  for  my  own  enjoy 
ment,  I  have  set  down  in  small  red  and  black 
books  an  account  of  some  of  the  adventures  of 
a  quiet  life.     I  have  been  engaged  in  three 
different  kinds  of  farming,  the  first  being  the 
simple  cultivation  of  the  soil  and  the  pro 
duction  of  enough  corn,  buckwheat  and  lesser 
crops  to  satisfy  the  small  demands  of  my 
household,  the  second  being  a  more  or  less 
L      sedulous   farming   of  myself.    As   the  good 
"5^      Dr.  Donne  says: 

»        "We  are  but  farmers  of  ourselves:  yet  may 
If  we  can  stock  ourselves  and  thrive,  uplay 

fc.^  . 

^b         Much,  much  good  treasure  for  the  great  rent  day." 

V?^  And  finally,  with  some  instruction  and  not 
a  little  amusement  of  a  quiet  sort,  I  have 
farmed  with  the  plow  of  a  perennial  admira- 
tion,  and  inquisitiveness,  all  that  world,  both 


4CG55O 


vi  ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT 

of  men  and  of  nature,  which  lies  so  pleasantly 
around  me.  By  using  my  farm  not  as  an 
end,  but  as  a  tool,  I  have  cultivated  with 
diligence  all  the  greater  fields  of  life  which  I 
have  been  able  to  reach. 

At  first,  I  considered  recasting  my  observa 
tions  in  some  form  —  perhaps  a  novel,  pos 
sibly  an  essay  —  which  should  eliminate  the 
evident  first  person,  but  I  reflected  that  every 
writer,  however  he  may  disguise  the  form  of 
his  production,  is  after  all  chiefly  concerned 
in  reporting  that  which  he  discovers  within 
himself.  I  know  myself  better  than  any  one 
else,  and  my  writing  has  taken  the  form, 
whether  rightly  or  wrongly,  at  least  inevitably, 
of  intimate  observation  and  personal  narrative. 
I  have,  therefore,  and  without  apology,  used 
the  method  of  expression  which  best  suits  my 
nature. 

I  am  conscious  that  I  can  offer  few  of  the 
"practical  hints"  which  are  distributed  like 
coins  at  the  meetings  of  the  grange,  nor  have 
I  the  genius  to  write  a  poem,  nor  the  ortho 
doxy  to  preach  a  sermon.  I  can  offer  merely 
the  more  or  less  fragmentary  writing  of  a 
man's  life  as  it  has  been  lived  with  satisfaction 
for  eight  years.  Having  perfect  health,  for  I 


INTRODUCTION 


vn 


live  and  work  mostly  out  of  doors,  I  not  only 
enjoy  my  life,  but  I  reap  a  kind  of  second 
crop  from  enjoying  that  enjoyment.  Being 
no  spendthrift  of  opportunity  I  am  neither 
old,  nor  rich,  nor  married,  though  I  cannot 
for  these  reasons  take  to  myself  any  credit  for 
superior  courage  or  merit.  Nor  am  I  tagged 
with  tags:  I  do  not  belong  to  any  church,  or 
lodge,  or  political  party;  therefore  I  think 
whatever  I  please  upon  any  subject,  and  what 
I  think  I  have  the  indiscretion  to  write  down 
—  without  apology.  My  reading  has  been 
without  rule  or  reason,  and  not  even  for  in 
struction,  but  wilfully  for  enjoyment,  and 
I  have  written  because,  somehow,  I  could  not 
help  it. 

If  the  reader  cares  to  consider  the  adven 
tures  within  and  without  of  such  a  person  I 
invite  him  to  read  what  I  write;  but  if  the 
prologue  is  uninviting  he  is  here  given  fair 
warning  not  to  proceed. 


CONTENTS 


JHAPTER 

Introduction      .        .        ..... 

PACK 
V 

I. 

The  Burden  of  the  Valley  of  Vision  . 

3 

II. 

I  Buy  a  Farm      

13 

III. 

The  Joy  of  Possession        .        .        . 

23 

IV. 

I  Entertain  an  Agent  Unawares 

41 

V. 

The  Axe  Helve    

•               58 

VI. 

The  Marsh  Ditch        .... 

79 

VII. 

An  Argument  with  a  Millionnaire    . 

•       97 

VIII. 

A  Boy  and  a  Preacher 

.      119 

IX. 

The  Tramp  

.      i32 

X. 

The  Infidel  

.      152 

XL 

The  Country  Doctor  .... 

•      177 

XII. 

An  Evening  at  Home 

.      198 

XIII. 

The  Politician     

218 

XIV. 

ADVENTURES   IN  CONTENTMENT 


J 


"THE  BURDEN  OF  THE  VALLEY 
OF  VISION" 

I  CAME  here  eight  years  ago  as  the  renter 
of  this  farm,  of  which  soon  afterward 
I  became  the  owner.  The  time  before  that  I 
like  to  forget.  The  chief  impression  it  left 
upon  my  memory,  now  happily  growing  in 
distinct,  is  of  being  hurried  faster  than  I  could 
well  travel.  From  the  moment,  as  a  boy  of 
seventeen,  I  first  began  to  pay  my  own  way, 
my  days  were  ordered  by  an  inscrutable 
power  which  drove  me  hourly  to  my  task.  I 
was  rarely  allowed  to  look  up  or  down,  but 
always  forward,  toward  that  vague  Success 
which  we  Americans  love  to  glorify. 

My  senses,   my  nerves,   even  my  muscles 
were  continually  strained  to  the  utmost  of 


4  ADVENTURES  IN 

attainment.  If  I  loitered  or  paused,  by  the 
wayside,  as  it  seems  natural  for  me  to  do,  I 
soon  heard  the  sharp  crack  of  the  lash.  For 
many  years,  and  I  can  say  it  truthfully,  I  never 
rested.  I  neither  thought  nor  reflected.  J 
had  no  pleasure,  even  though  I  pursued  it 
fiercely  during  the  brief  respite  of  vacations. 
Through  many  feverish  years  I  did  not  work: 
I  merely  produced. 

The  only  real  thing  I  did  was  to  hurry  as 
though  every  moment  were  my  last,  as  though 
the  world,  which  now  seems  so  rich  in  every* 
thing,  held  only  one  prize  which  might  be 
seized  upon  before  I  arrived.  Since  then  I 
have  tried  to  recall,  like  one  who  struggles  to 
restore  the  visions  of  a  fever,  what  it  was  that 
I  ran  to  attain,  or  why  I  should  have  borne 
without  rebellion  such  indignities  to  soul  and 
body.  That  life  seems  now,  of  all  illusions, 
the  most  distant  and  unreal.  It  is  like  the 
unguessed  eternity  before  we  are  born:  not 
of  concern  compared  with  that  eternity  upon 
which  we  are  now  embarked. 

All  these  things  happened  in  cities  and 
among  crowds.  I  like  to  forget  them.  They 
smack  of  that  slavery  of  the  spirit  which  is  so 
much  worse  than  any  mere  slavery  of  the  body. 


CONTENTMENT  5 

One  day  —  it  was  in  April,  I  remember,  and 
the  soft  maples  in  the  city  park  were  just 
beginning  to  blossom  —  I  stopped  suddenly. 
I  did  not  intend  to  stop.  I  confess  in  humili 
ation  that  it  was  no  courage,  no  will  of  my 
own.  I  intended  to  go  on  toward  Success: 
but  Fate  stopped  me.  It  was  as  if  I  had  been 
thrown  violently  from  a  moving  planet:  all 
the  universe  streamed  around  me  and  past 
me.  It  seemed  to  me  that  of  all  animate 
creation,  I  was  the  only  thing  that  was  still  or 
silent.  Until  I  stopped  I  had  not  known  the 
pace  I  ran;  and  I  had  a  vague  sympathy  and 
understanding,  never  felt  before,  for  those 
who  left  the  running.  I  lay  prostrate  with 
fever  and  close  to  death  for  weeks  and  watched 
the  world  go  by:  the  dust,  the  noise,  the  very 
colour  of  haste.  The  only  sharp  pang  that 
I  suffered  was  the  feeling  that  I  should  be 
broken-hearted  and  that  I  was  not;  that  I 
should  care  and  that  I  did  not.  It  was  as 
though  I  had  died  and  escaped  all  further 
responsibility.  I  even  watched  with  dim 
equanimity  my  friends  racing  past  me,  pant 
ing  as  they  ran.  Some  of  them  paused  an 
instant  to  comfort  me  where  I  lay,  but  I  could 
see  that  their  minds  were  still  upon  the  run- 


6  ADVENTURES  IN 

ning  and  I  was  glad  when  they  went  away. 
I  cannot  tell  with  what  weariness  their  haste 
oppressed  me.  As  for  them,  they  somehow 
blamed  me  for  dropping  out.  I  knew.  Until 
we  ourselves  understand,  we  accept  no  excuse 
from  the  man  who  stops.  While  I  felt  it  all, 
I  was  not  bitter.  I  did  not  seem  to  care.  I 
said  to  myself:  "This  is  Unfitness.  I  sur 
vive  no  longer.  So  be  it." 

Thus  I  lay,  and  presently  I  began  to  hunger 
and  thirst.  Desire  rose  within  me:  the  in 
describable  longing  of  the  convalescent  for 
the  food  of  recovery.  So  I  lay,  questioning 
wearily  what  it  was  that  I  required.  One 
morning  I  wakened  with  a  strange,  new  joy 
in  my  soul.  It  came  to  me  at  that  moment 
with  indescribable  poignancy,  the  thought  of 
walking  barefoot  in  cool,  fresh  plow  furrows 
as  I  had  once  done  when  a  boy.  So  vividly 
the  memory  came  to  me  —  the  high  airy 
world  as  it  was  at  that  moment,  and  the  boy 
I  was  walking  free  in  the  furrows  —  that  the 
weak  tears  filled  my  eyes,  the  first  I  had  shed 
in  many  years.  Then  I  thought  of  sitting  in 
quiet  thickets  in  old  fence  corners,  the  wood 
behind  me  rising  still,  cool,  mysterious,  and  the 
fields  in  front  stretching  away  in  illimitable 


CONTENTMENT  7 

pleasantness.  I  thought  of  the  good  smell 
of  cows  at  milking  —  you  do  not  know,  if 
you  do  not  know !  —  I  thought  of  the  sights 
and  sounds,  the  heat  and  sweat  of  the  hay 
fields.  I  thought  of  a  certain  brook  I  knew 
when  a  boy  that  flowed  among  alders  and 
wild  parsnips,  where  I  waded  with  a  three- 
foot  rod  for  trout.  I  thought  of  all  these 
things  as  a  man  thinks  of  his  first  love.  Oh, 
I  craved  the  soil.  I  hungered  and  thirsted 
for  the  earth.  I  was  greedy  for  growing 
things. 

And  thus,  eight  years  ago,  I  came  here  like 
one  sore- wr,  traded  creeping  from  the  field  of 
battle.  I  remember  walking  in  the  sunshine, 
weak  yet,  but  curiously  satisfied.  I  that  was 
dead  lived  again.  It  came  to  me  then  with 
a  curious  certainty,  not  since  so  assuring,  that 
I  understood  the  chief  marvel  of  nature  hid 
den  within  the  Story  of  the  Resurrection,  the 
marvel  of  plant  ard  seed,  father  and  son,  the 
wonder  of  the  seasons,  the  miracle  of  life.  I, 
too,  had  died:  I  had  lain  long  in  darkness, 
and  now  I  had  risen  again  upon  the  sweet 
earth.  And  I  possessed  beyond  others  a 
knowledge  of  a  former  existence,  which  I 
knew,  even  then,  I  could  never  return  to, 


8  ADVENTURES  IN 

For  a  time,  in  the  new  life,  I  was  happy  to 
drunkenness  —  working,  eating,  sleeping.  I 
was  an  animal  again,  let  out  to  run  in  green 
pastures.  I  was  glad  of  the  sunrise  and  the 
sunset.  I  was  glad  at  noon.  It  delighted 
me  when  my  muscles  ached  with  work  and 
when,  after  supper,  I  could  not  keep  my  eyes 
open  for  sheer  weariness.  And  sometimes 
I  was  awakened  in  the  night  out  of  a  sound 
sleep  —  seemingly  by  the  very  silences  —  and 
lay  in  a  sort  of  bodily  comfort  impossible  to 
describe. 

I  did  not  want  to  feel  or  to  think :  I  merely 
wanted  to  live.  In  the  sun  or  the  rain  I 
wanted  to  go  out  and  come  in,  and  never  again 
know  the  pain  of  the  unquiet  spirit.  I  looked 
forward  to  an  awakening  not  without  dread 
for  we  are  as  helpless  before  birth  as  in  the 
presence  of  death. 

But  like  all  birth,  it  came,  at  last,  sud 
denly.  All  that  summer  I  had  worked  in  a 
sort  of  animal  content.  Autumn  had  now 
come,  late  autumn,  with  coolness  in  the  even 
ing  air.  I  was  plowing  in  my  upper  field  — - 
not  then  mine  in  fact  —  and  it  was  a  soft 
afternoon  with  the  earth  turning  up  moist  and 
fragrant.  I  had  been  walking  the  furrows  all 


CONTENTMENT  g 

day  long.  I  had  taken  note,  as  though  my 
life  depended  upon  it,  of  the  occasional  stones 
or  roots  in  my  field,  I  made  sure  of  the  adjust 
ment  of  the  harness,  I  drove  with  peculiar 
care  to  save  the  horses.  With  such  simple 
details  of  the  work  in  hand  I  had  found  it  my 
joy  to  occupy  my  mind.  Up  to  that  moment 
the  most  important  things  in  the  world  had 
seemed  a  straight  furrow  and  well-turned 
corners  —  to  me,  then,  a  profound  accom 
plishment. 

I  cannot  well  describe  it,  save  by  the  analogy 
of  an  opening  door  somewhere  within  the 
house  of  my  consciousness.  I  had  been  in 
the  dark:  I  seemed  to  emerge.  I  had  been 
bound  down :  I  seemed  to  leap  up  —  and  with 
a  marvellous  sudden  sense  of  freedom  and  joy. 

I  stopped  there  in  my  field  and  looked  up, 
And  it  was  as  if  I  had  never  looked  up  before, 
I  discovered  another  world.  It  had  been, 
there  before,  for  long  and  long,  but  I  had 
never  seen  nor  felt  it.  All  discoveries  are 
made  in  that  way :  a  man  finds  the  new  thing, 
not  in  nature  but  in  himself. 

It  was  as  though,  concerned  with  plow  and 
harness  and  furrow,  I  had  never  known  that 
the  world  had  height  or  colour  or  sweet  sounds, 


xo  ADVENTURES  IN 

or  that  there  was  feeling  in  a:,hillside.  I  for 
got  myself,  or  where  I  was.  I  stood  a  long 
time  motionless.  My  dominant  feeling,  if  I 
can  at  all  express  it,  was  of  a  strange  new 
friendliness,  a  warmth,  as  though  these  hills, 
this  field  about  me,  the  woods,  had  suddenly 
spoken  to  me  and  caressed  me.  It  was  as 
though  I  had  been  accepted  in  membership, 
as  though  I  was  now  recognised,  after  long 
trial,  as  belonging  here. 

Across  the  town  road  which  separates  my 
farm  from  my  nearest  neighbour's,  I  saw  a 
field,  familiar,  yet  strangely  new  and  unfa 
miliar,  lying  up  to  the  setting  sun,  all  red  with 
autumn;  above  it  the  incalculable  heights  of 
the  sky,  blue,  but  not  quite  clear,  owing  to 
the  Indian  summer  haze.  I  cannot  convey 
the  sweetness  and  softness  of  that  landscape, 
the  airiness  of  it,  the  mystery  of  it,  as  it  came 
to  me  at  that  moment.  It  was  as  though, 
looking  at  an  acquaintance  long  known,  I 
should  discover  that  I  loved  him.  As  I 
stood  there  I  was  conscious  of  the  cool  tang 
of  burning  leaves  and  brush  heaps,  the  lazy 
smoke  of  which  floated  down  the  long  valley 
and  found  me  in  my  field,  and  finally  I  heard, 
is  though  the  sounds  were  then  made  for  the 


CONTENTMENT  it 

first  time,  all  the  vague  murmurs  of  the  coun 
try  side  —  a  cow-bell  somewhere  in  the  dis 
tance,  the  creak  of  a  wagon,  the  blurred 
evening  hum  of  birds,  insects,  frogs.  So 
much  it  means  for  a  man  to  stop  and  look  uj 
from  his  task.  So  I  stood,  and  I  looked  uj. 
and  down  with  a  glow  and  a  thrill  which  1 
cannot  now  look  back  upon  without  some 
envy  and  a  little  amusement  at  the  very  grand- 
ness  and  seriousness  of  it  all.  And  I  said 
aloud  to  myself: 

"  I  will  be  as  broad  as  the  earth.  I  will 
not  be  limited." 

Thus  I  was  born  into  the  present  world,  and 
here  I  continue,  not  knowing  what  othei 
world  I  may  yet  achieve.  I  do  not  know,  but 
I  wait  in  expectancy,  keeping  my  furrows 
straight  and  my  corners  well  turned.  Since 
that  day  in  the  field,  though  my  fences  in 
clude  no  more  acres,  and  I  still  plow  my  own 
fields,  my  real  domain  has  expanded  until  I 
crop  wide  fields  and  take  the  profit  of  many 
curious  pastures.  From  my  farm  I  can  see 
most  of  the  world;  and  if  I  wait  here  long 
enough  all  people  pass  this  way. 

And  I  look  out  upon  them  not  in  the 
surroundings  which  they  have  chosen  for 


12  ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT 

themselves,  but  from  the  vantage  ground  of 
my  familiar  world.  The  symbols  which  meant 
so  much  in  cities  mean  little  here.  Some 
times  it  seems  to  me  as  though  I  saw 
men  naked.  They  come  and  stand  beside  my 
oak,  and  the  oak  passes  solemn  judgment; 
they  tread  my  furrows  and  the  clods  give 
silent  evidence;  they  touch  the  green  blades 
of  my  corn,  the  corn  whispers  its  sure  con 
clusions.  Stern  judgments  that  will  be  de 
ceived  by  no  symbols! 

Thus  I  have  delighted,  secretly, 'in  calling 
myself  an  unlimited  farmer,  and  I  make  this 
confession  in  answer  to  the  inner  and  truthful 
demand  of  the  soul  that  we  are  not,  after  all, 
the  slaves  of  things,  whether  corn,  or  bank 
notes,  or  spindles;  that  we  are  not  the  used, 
but  the  users;  that  life  is  more  than  profit 
and  loss.  And  so  I  shall  expect  that  wiiile 
I  am  talking  farm  some  of  you  may  be  think 
ing  dry  goods,  banking,  literature,  carpentry, 
or  what-not.  But  if  you  can  say:  I  am  an 
unlimited  dry  goods  merchant,  I  am  an  un 
limited  carpenter,  I  will  give  you  an  old- 
fashioned  country  hand-shake,  strong  and 
warm.  We  are  friends;  our  orbits  coincide. 


II 


I  BUY  A  FARM 

A>  I  have  said,  when  I  came  here  I  came 
as  a  renter,  working  all  of  the  first 
summer  without  that  "open  vision"  of  which 
the  prophet  Samuel  speaks.  I  had  no  mem 
ory  of  the  past  and  no  hope  of  the  future.  I 
fed  upon  the  moment.  My  sister  Harriet  kept 
the  house  and  I  looked  after  the  farm  and  the 
fields.  In  all  those  months  I  hardly  knew 
that  I  had  neighbours,  although  Horace,  from 
whom  I  rented  my  place,  was  not  infrequently 
a  visitor.  He  has  since  said  that  I  looked  at 
him  as  though  he  were  a  "statute."  I  was 

13 


i4  ADVENTURES  IN 

"citified,"  Horace  said;  and  "citified"  with 
us  here  in  the  country  is  nearly  the  limit  of 
invective,  though  not  violent  enough  to  dis 
courage  such  a  gift  of  sociability  as  his.  The 
Scotch  Preacher,  the  rarest,  kindest  man  I 
know,  called  once  or  twice,  wearing  the  air  of 
formality  which  so  ill  becomes  him.  I  saw 
nothing  in  him:  it  was  my  fault,  not  his,  that 
I  missed  so  many  weeks  of  his  friendship. 
Once  in  that  time  the  Professor  crossed  my 
fields  with  his  tin  box  slung  from  his  shoulder ; 
and  the  only  feeling  I  had,  born  of  crowded 
cities,  was  that  this  was  an  intrusion  upon 
my  property.  Intrusion:  and  the  Professor! 
It  is  now  unthinkable.  I  often  passed  the 
Carpentry  Shop  on  my  way  to  town.  I  saw 
Baxter  many  times  at  his  bench.  Even  then 
Baxter's  eyes  attracted  me:  he  always  glanced 
up  at  me  as  I  passed,  and  his  look  had  in  it 
something  of  a  caress.  So  the  home  of  Stark 
weather,  standing  aloof  among  its  broad 
lawns  and  tall  trees,  carried  no  meaning  for 
me. 

Of  all  my  neighbours,  Horace  is  the  nearest. 
From  the  back  door  of  my  house,  looking 
over  the  hill,  I  can  see  the  two  red  chimneys 
of  his  home,  and  the  top  of  the  windmill. 


CONTENTMENT  15 

Horace's  barn  and  corn  silo  are  more  pre 
tentious  by  far  than  his  house,  but  for 
tunately  they  stand  on  lower  ground,  where 
they  are  not  visible  from  my  side  of  the  hill. 
Five  minutes'  walk  in  a  straight  line  across 
the  fields  brings  me  to  Horace's  door;  by  the 
road  it  takes  at  least  ten  minutes. 

In  the  fall  after  my  arrival  I  had  come  to 
love  the  farm  and  its  surroundings  so  much 
that  I  decided  to  have  it  for  my  own.  I  did 
not  look  ahead  to  being  a  farmer.  I  did  not 
ask  Harriet's  advice.  I  found  myself  sitting 
one  day  in  the  justice's  office.  The  justice 
was  bald  and  as  dry  as  corn  fodder  in  March. 
He  sat  with  spectacled  impressiveness  behind 
his  ink-stained  table.  Horace  hitched  his  heel 
on  the  round  of  his  chair  and  put  his  hat  on 
his  knee.  He  wore  his  best  coat  and  his 
hair  was  brushed  in  deference  to  the  occasion. 
He  looked  uncomfortable,  but  important. 
I  sat  opposite  him,  somewhat  overwhelmed 
by  the  business  in  hand.  I  felt  like  an  inade 
quate  boy  measured  against  solemnities  too 
large  for  him.  The  processes  seemed  curi 
ously  unconvincing,  like  a  game  in  which  the 
important  part  is  to  keep  from  laughing;  and 
yet  when  I  thought  of  laughing  I  felt  cold 


16  ADVENTURES  IN 

chills  of  horror.  If  I  had  laughed  at  that 
moment  I  cannot  think  what  that  justice 
would  have  said!  But  it  was  a  pleasure  to 
have  the  old  man  read  the  deed,  looking  at 
me  over  his  spectacles  from  time  to  time  to 
make  sure  I  was  not  playing  truant.  There 
are  good  and  great  words  in  a  deed.  One  of 
them  I  brought  away  with  me  from  the  con 
ference,  a  very  fine,  big  one,  which  I  love  to 
have  out  now  and  again  to  remind  me  of  the 
really  serious  things  of  life.  It  gives  me  a 
peculiar  dry,  legal  feeling.  If  I  am  about  to 
enter  upon  a  serious  bargain,  like  the  sale  of  a 
cow,  I  am  more  avaricious  if  I  work  with  it 
under  my  tongue. 

Hereditaments !  Hereditaments ! 

Some  words  need  to  be  fenced  in,  pig-tight, 
so  that  they  cannot  escape  us;  others  we 
prefer  to  have  running  at  large,  indefinite  but 
inclusive.  I  would  not  look  up  that  word  for 
anything:  I  might  find  it  fenced  in  so  that  it 
could  not  mean  to  me  all  that  it  does  now. 

Hereditaments!  May  there  be  many  of 
them  —  or  it ! 

Is  it  not  a  fine  Providence  that  gives  us 
different  things  to  love?  In  the  purchase  of 
my  farm  both  Horace  and  I  got  the  better  of 


CONTENTMENT  17 

the  bargain  —  and  yet  neither  was  cheated. 
In  reality  a  fairly  strong  lantern  light  will 
shine  through  Horace,  and  I  could  see  that 
he  was  hugging  himself  with  the  joy  of  his 
bargain;  but  I  was  content.  I  had  some 
money  left  —  what  more  does  anyone  want 
after  a  bargain  ?  —  and  I  had  come  into 
possession  of  the  thing  I  desired  most  of  all. 
Looking  at  bargains  from  a  purely  commercial 
point  of  view,  someone  is  always  cheated,  but 
looked  at  with  the  simple  eye  both  seller  and 
buyer  always  win. 

We  came  away  from  the  gravity  of  that 
bargaining  in  Horace's  wagon.  On  our 
way  home  Horace  gave  me  fatherly  advice 
about  using  my  farm.  He  spoke  from  the 
height  of  his  knowledge  to  me,  a  humble 
beginner.  The  conversation  ran  something 
like  this: 

HORACE  :  Thar  's  a  clump  of  plum  trees 
along  the  lower  pasture  fence.  Perhaps  you 
saw  'm 

MYSELF:  I  saw  them:  that  is  one  reason 
I  bought  the  back  pasture.  In  May  they 
will  be  full  of  blossoms. 

HORACE  :  They  're  wild  plums :  they  ain't 
good  for  nothing. 


i8  ADVENTURES  IN 

MYSELF:  But  think  how  fine  they  will  be 
all  the  year  round. 

HORACE:  Fine!  They  take  up  a  quarter- 
acre  of  good  land.  I  Ve  been  going  to  cut 
'em  myself  this  ten  years. 

MYSELF:  I  don't  think  I  shall  want  them 
cut  out. 

HORACE:  Humph. 

After  a  pause: 

HORACE  :  There 's  a  lot  of  good  body  cord- 
rood  in  that  oak  on  the  knoll. 

MYSELF  :  Cord- wood  I  Why,  that  oak  is  the 
treasure  of  the  whole  farm.  I  have  never  seen 
a  finer  one.  I  could  not  think  of  cutting  it. 

HORACE  :  It  will  bring  you  fifteen  or  twenty 
dollars  cash  in  hand. 

MYSELF  :  But  I  rather  have  the  oak. 

HORACE:  Humph. 

So  our  conversation  continued  for  some 
time.  I  let  Horace  know  that  I  preferred 
rail  fences,  even  old  ones,  to  a  wire  fence, 
and  that  I  thought  a  farm  should  not  be  too 
large,  else  it  might  keep  one  away  from  his 
friends.  And  what,  I  asked,  is  corn  com 
pared  with  a  friend?  Oh,  I  grew  really 
oratorical!  I  gave  it  as  my  opinion  that 
there  should  be  vines  around  the  house  (Waste 


CONTENTMENT  19 

of  time,  said  Horace),  and  that  no  farmer 
should  permit  anyone  to  paint  medicine 
advertisements  on  his  barn  (Brings  (you  ten 
dollars  a  year,  said  Horace),  and  that  I  pro 
posed  to  fix  the  bridge  on  the  lower  road 
(What's  a  path-master  for?  asked  Horace). 
I  said  that  a  town  was  a  useful  adjunct  for  a 
farm ;  but  I  laid  it  down  as  a  principle  that  no 
town  should  be  too  near  a  farm.  I  finally 
became  so  enthusiastic  in  setting  forth  my 
tonceptions  of  a  true  farm  that  I  reduced 
Horace  to  a  series  of  humphs.  The  early 
humphs  were  incredulous,  but  as  I  proceeded, 
with  some  joy,  they  became  humorously  con 
temptuous,  and  finally  began  to  voice  a  large, 
comfortable,  condescending  tolerance.  I 
could  fairly  feel  Horace  growing  superior 
as  he  sat  there  beside  me.  Oh,  he  had  every 
thing  in  his  favour.  He  could  prove  what  he 
said:  One  tree  +  one  thicket  =  twenty  dollars. 
One  landscape  =  ten  cords  of  wood  =  a  quarter- 
acre  of  corn  =  twenty  dollars .  These  equations 
prove  themselves.  Moreover,  was  not  Horace 
the  "best  off"  of  any  farmer  in  the  country? 
Did  he  not  have  the  largest  barn  and  the 
best  corn  silo?  And  are  there  better  argu 
ments? 


20  ADVENTURES  IN 

Have  you  ever  had  anyone  give  you  up  as 
hopeless?  And  is  it  not  a  pleasure?  It  is 
only  after  people  resign  you  to  your  fate  that 
you  really  make  friends  of  them.  For  how 
can  you  win  the  friendship  of  one  who  is  trying 
to  convert  you  to  his  superior  beliefs  ? 

As  we  talked,  then,  Horace  and  I,  I  began 
to  have  hopes  of  him.  There  is  no  joy  com 
parable  to  the  making  of  a  friend,  and  the 
more  resistant  the  material  the  greater  the 
triumph.  Baxter,  the  carpenter,  says  that 
when  he  works  for  enjoyment  he  chooses 
curly  maple. 

When  Horace  set  me  down  at  my  gate  that 
afternoon  he  gave  me  his  hand  and  told  me 
that  he  would  look  in  on  me  occasionally,  and 
that  if  I  had  any  trouble  to  let  him  know. 

A  few  days  later  I  heard  by  the  round 
about  telegraph  common  in  country  neigh 
bourhoods  that  Horace  had  found  a  good 
deal  of  fun  in  reporting  what  I  said  about 
farming  and  that  he  had  called  me  by  a  highly 
humorous  but  disparaging  name.  Horace 
has  a  vein  of  humour  all  his  own.  I  have 
caught  him  alone  in  his  fields  chuckling  to 
himself,  and  even  breaking  out  in  a  loud  laugh 
at  the  memory  of  some  amusing  incident  that 


CONTENTMENT  21 

happened  ten  years  ago.  One  day,  a  month 
or  more  after  our  bargain,  Horace  came  down 
across  his  field  and  hitched  his  jean-clad  leg 
over  my  fence,  with  the  intent,  I  am  sure,  of 
delving  a  little  more  in  the  same  rich  mine  of 
humour. 

"Horace,"  I  said,  looking  him  straight 
in  the  eye,  "did  you  call  me  an  —  Agricul 
turist!" 

I  have  rarely  seen  a  man  so  pitifully  con 
fused  as  Horace  was  at  that  moment.  He 
flushed,  he  stammered,  he  coughed,  the 
perspiration  broke  out  on  his  forehead.  He 
tried  to  speak  and  could  not.  I  was  sorry 
for  him. 

"Horace,"  I  said,  "you're  a  Farmer." 

We  looked  at  each  other  a  moment  with 
dreadful  seriousness,  and  then  both  of  us 
laughed  to  the  point  of  holding  our  sides. 
We  slapped  our  knees,  we  shouted,  we 
wriggled,  we  almost  rolled  with  merriment. 
Horace  put  out  his  hand  and  we  shook 
heartily.  In  five  minutes  I  had  the  whole 
story  of  his  humorous  reports  out  of  him. 

No  real  friendship  is  ever  made  without 
an  initial  clashing  which  discloses  the  metal 
of  each  to  each.  Since  that  day  Horace's 


22  ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT 

jean-clad  leg  has  rested  many  a  time  on  my 
fence  and  we  have  talked  crops  and  calves. 
We  have  been  the  best  of  friends  in  the  way 
of  whiffle-trees,  butter  tubs  and  pig  killings 
—  but  never  once  looked  up  together  at  the 
sky. 

The  chief  objection  to  a  joke  in  the  countrv 
is  that  it  is  so  imperishable.  There  is  so  much 
room  for  jokes  and  so  few  jokes  to  fill  it. 
When  I  see  Horace  approaching  with  a  pe 
culiar,  friendly,  reminiscent  smile  on  his  face 
I  hasten  with  all  ardour  to  anticipate  him : 

"  Horace,"  I  exclaim,  "  you  're  a  Farmer." 


"  The  heat  and  sweat  of  the  hay  fields" 


III 

THE  JOY  OF  POSSESSION 

"How  sweet  the  west  wind  sounds  in  my  own  trees: 
How  graceful  climb  these  shadows  on  my  hill." 

ALWAYS  as  I  travel,  I  think,  "  Here  I  am, 
let  anything  happen !" 
I  do  not  want  to  know  the  future:  knowl 
edge  is  too  certain,  too  cold,  too  real. 

It  is  true  that  I  have  not  always  met  the 
fine  adventure  nor  won  the  friend,  but  if  I 
had,  what  should  I  have  more  to  look  for  at 
other  turnings  and  other  hilltops? 

The  afternoon  of  my  purchase  was  one  of 
the  great  afternoons  of  my  life.  When 

33 


24  ADVENTURES  IN 

Horace  put  me  down  at  my  gate,  I  did  not 
go  at  once  to  the  house ;  I  did  not  wish,  then, 
to  talk  with  Harriet.  The  things  I  had  with 
myself  were  too  important.  I  skulked  to 
ward  my  barn,  compelling  myself  to  walk 
slowly  until  I  reached  the  corner,  where  I 
broke  into  an  eager  run  as  though  the  old 
Nick  himself  were  after  me.  Behind  the 
barn  I  dropped  down  on  the  grass,  panting 
with  laughter,  and  not  without  some  of  the 
shame  a  man  feels  at  being  a  boy.  Close 
along  the  side  of  the  barn,  as  I  sat  there  in 
the  cool  of  the  shade,  I  could  see  a  tangled 
mat  of  smartweed  and  catnip,  and  the  boards 
of  the  barn,  brown  and  weather-beaten,  and 
the  gables  above  with  mud  swallows'  nests, 
now  deserted;  and  it  struck  me  suddenly,  as 
I  observed  these  homely  pleasant  things: 

"All  this  is  mine." 

I  sprang  up  and  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Mine,"  I  said. 

It  came  to  me  then  like  an  inspiration  that 
I  might  now  go  out  and  take  formal  pos 
session  of  my  farm.  I  might  experience  the 
emotion  of  a  landowner.  I  might  swell  with 
dignity  and  importance  —  for  once,  at  least. 

So  I  started  at  the  fence  corner  back  of 


CONTENTMENT  25 

the  barn  and  walked  straight  up  through  the 
pasture,  keeping  close  to  my  boundaries,  that 
I  might  not  miss  a  single  rod  of  my  acres. 
And  oh,  it  was  a  prime  afternoon !  The  Lord 
made  it !  Sunshine  —  and  autumn  haze  — • 
and  red  trees  —  and  yellow  fields  —  and  blue 
distances  above  the  far-away  town.  And 
the  air  had  a  tang  which  got  into  a  man's 
blood  and  set  him  chanting  all  the  poetry  he 
ever  knew. 

"I  climb  that  was  a  clod, 

I  run  whose  steps  were  slow, 
I  reap  the  very  wheat  of  God 
That  once  had  none  to  sow!" 

So  I  walked  up  the  margin  of  my  field 
looking  broadly  about  me:  and  presently,  I 
began  to  examine  my  fences  —  my  fences  — 
with  a  critical  eye.  I  considered  the  quality 
of  the  soil,  though  in  truth  I  was  not  much 
of  a  judge  of  such  matters.  I  gloated  over 
my  plowed  land,  lying  there  open  and  pas 
sive  in  the  sunshine.  I  said  of  this  tree:  "It 
is  mine,"  and  of  its  companion  beyond  the 
fence:  "It  is  my  neighbour's."  Deeply  and 
sharply  within  myself  I  drew  the  line  be 
tween  meum  and  tuum:  for  only  thus,  by 


26  ADVENTURES  IN 

comparing  ourselves  with  our  neighbours,  can 
we  come  to  the  true  realisation  of  property. 
Occasionally  I  stopped  to  pick  up  a  stone  and 
cast  it  over  the  fence,  thinking  with  some 
truculence  that  my  neighbour  would  probably 
throw  it  back  again.  Never  mind,  I  had  it 
out  of  my  field.  Once,  with  eager  surplusage 
of  energy,  I  pulled  down  a  dead  and  partly 
rotten  oak  stub,  long  an  eye-sore,  with  an 
important  feeling  of  proprietorship.  I  could 
do  anything  I  liked.  The  farm  was  mine. 

How  sweet  an  emotion  is  possession! 
What  charm  is  inherent  in  ownership! 
What  a  foundation  for  vanity,  even  for  the 
greater  quality 'of  self-respect,  lies  in  a  little 
property!  I  fell  to  thinking  of  the  excellent 
wording  of  the  old  books  in  which  land  is 
called  "real  property,"  or  "real  estate." 
Money  we  may  possess,  or  goods  or  chattels, 
but  they  give  no  such  impression  of  mineness 
as  the  feeling  that  one's  feet  rest  upon  soil  that 
is  his:  that  part  of  the  deep  earth  is  his  with 
all  the  water  upon  it,  all  small  animals  that 
creep  or  crawl  in  the  holes  of  it,  all  birds  or 
insects  that  fly  in  the  air  above  it,  all  trees, 
shrubs,  flowers,  and  grass  that  grow  upon  it, 
all  houses,  barns  and  fences  —  all,  his.  As  I 


CONTENTMENT  23 

strode  along  that  afternoon  I  fed  upon  posses 
sion.  I  rolled  the  sweet  morsel  of  ownership 
under  my  tongue.  I  seemed  to  set  my  feet 
down  more  firmly  on  the  good  earth.  I 
straightened  my  shoulders:  this  land  was 
mine.  I  picked  up  a  clod  of  earth  and  let  it 
crumble  and  drop  through  my  ringers:  it 
gave  me  a  peculiar  and  poignant  feeling  of 
possession.  I  can  understand  why  the  misei 
enjoys  the  very  physical  contact  of  his  gold. 
Every  sense  I  possessed,  sight,  hearing,  smell, 
touch,  fed  upon  the  new  joy. 

At  one  corner  of  my  upper  field  the  fence 
crosses  an  abrupt  ravine  upon  leggy  stilts. 
My  line  skirts  the  slope  halfway  up.  My 
neighbour  owns  the  crown  of  the  hill  which 
he  has  shorn  until  it  resembles  the  tonsured 
pate  of  a  monk.  Every  rain  brings  the  light 
soil  down  the  ravine  and  lays  it  like  a  hand 
of  infertility  upon  my  farm.  It  had  always 
bothered  me,  this  wastage;  and  as  I  looked 
across  my  fence  I  thought  to  myself: 

"I  must  have  that  hill.  I  will  buy  it.  I 
will  set  the  fence  farther  up.  I  will  plant 
the  slope.  It  is  no  age  of  tonsures  either  in 
religion  or  agriculture." 

The  very  vision  of  widened  acres  set  my 


28  ADVENTURES  IN 

thoughts  on  fire.  In  imagination  I  extended 
my  farm  upon  all  sides,  thinking  how  much 
better  I  could  handle  my  land  than  my  neigh 
bours.  I  dwelt  avariciously  upon  more  pos 
sessions:  I  thought  with  discontent  of  my 
poverty.  More  land  I  wanted.  I  was  en 
veloped  in  clouds  of  envy.  I  coveted  my 
neighbour's  land:  I  felt  myself  superior  and 
Horace  inferior:  I  was  consumed  with  black 
vanity. 

So  I  dealt  hotly  with  these  thoughts  until 
I  reached  the  top  of  the  ridge  at  the  farther 
corner  of  my  land.  It  is  the  highest  point  on 
the  farm. 

For  a  moment  I  stood  looking  about  me  — 
a  wonderful  prospect  of  serene  beauty.  As 
it  came  to  me  —  hills,  fields,  woods  —  the 
fever  which  had  been  consuming  me  died 
down.  I  thought  how  the  world  stretched 
away  from  my  fences  -  -  just  such  fields  — 
for  a  thousand  miles,  and  in  each  small  en 
closure  a  man  as  hot  as  I  with  the  passion  of 
possession.  How  they  all,  envied,  and  hated, 
in  their  longing  for  more  land!  How  prop 
erty  kept  them  apart,  prevented  the  close, 
confident  touch  of  friendship,  how  it  sepa 
rated  lovers  and  ruined  families!  Of  al] 


CONTENTMENT  29 

obstacles  to  that  complete  democracy  of 
which  we  dream,  is  there  a  greater  than 
property  ? 

I  was  ashamed.  Deep  shame  covered  me. 
How  little  of  the  earth,  after  all,  I  said,  lies 
within  the  limits  of  my  fences.  And  I  looked 
out  upon  the  perfect  beauty  of  the  world 
around  me,  and  I  saw  how  little  excited  it  was, 
how  placid,  how  undemanding. 

I  had  come  here  to  be  free  and  already  this 
farm,  which  I  thought  of  so  fondly  as  my 
possession,  was  coming  to  possess  me. 
Ownership  is  an  appetite  like  hunger  or  thirst, 
and  as  we  may  eat  to  gluttony  and  drink  to 
drunkenness  so  we  may  possess  to  avarice. 
How  many  men  have  I  seen  who,  though  they 
regard  themselves  as  models  of  temperance, 
wear  the  marks  of  unbridled  indulgence  of  the 
passion  of  possession,  and  how  like  gluttony 
or  licentiousness  it  sets  its  sure  sign  upon 
their  faces. 

I  said  to  myself,  Why  should  any  man 
fence  himself  in?  And  why  hope  to  enlarge 
one's  world  by  the  creeping  acquisition  of 
a  few  acres  to  his  farm?  I  thought  of  the 
old  scientist,  who,  laying  his  hand  upon  the 
grass,  remarked :  "  Everything  under  my  hand 


wv  stales 

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WlSs 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  31 

is  a  miracle"  — forgetting  that  everything 
outside  was  also  a  miracle. 

As  I  stood  there  I  glanced  across  the  broad 
valley  wherein  lies  the  most  of  my  farm,  to  a 
field  of  buckwheat  which  belongs  to  Horace. 
For  an  instant  it  gave  me  the  illusion  of  a  hill 
on  fire :  for  the  late  sun  shone  full  on  the  thick 
ripe  stalks  of  the  buckwheat,  giving  forth  an 
abundant  red  glory  that  blessed  the  eye.  Horace 
had  been  proud  of  his  crop,  smacking  his  lips  at 
the  prospect  of  winter  pancakes,  and  here  I 
was  entering  his  field  and  taking  without 
hindrance  another  crop,  a  crop  gathered  not 
with  hands  nor  stored  in  granaries :  a  wonder 
ful  crop,  which,  once  gathered,  may  long  be 
fed  upon  and  yet  remain  unconsumed. 

So  I  looked  across  the  countryside ;  a  group 
of  elms  here,  a  tufted  hilltop  there,  the  smooth 
verdure  of  pastures,  the  rich  brown  of  new- 
plowed  fields  —  and  the  odours,  and  the  sounds 
of  the  country  —  all  cropped  by  me.  How 
little  the  fences  keep  me  out:  I  do  not  regard 
titles,  nor  consider  boundaries.  I  enter  either 
by  day  or  by  night,  but  not  secretly.  Taking 
my  fill,  I  leave  as  much  as  I  find. 

And  thus  standing  upon  the  highest  hill  in 
xny  upper  pasture,  I  thought  of  the  quoted 


32  ADVENTURES  IN 

saying  of  a  certain  old  abbot  of  the 
middle  ages  —  "He  that  is  a  true  monk 
considers  nothing  as  belonging  to  him 
except  a  lyre." 

What  finer  spirit?  Who  shall  step  forth 
freer  than  he  who  goes  with  nothing  save  his 
lyre?  He  shall  sing  as  he  goes:  he  shall  not 
be  held  down  nor  fenced  in. 

With  a  lifting  of  the  soul  I  thought  of  that 
old  abbot,  how  smooth  his  brow,  how  catholic 
his  interest,  how  serene  his  outlook,  how  free 
his  friendships,  how  unlimited  his  whole  life. 
Nothing  but  a  lyre! 

So  I  made  a  covenant  there  with  myself. 
I  said:  "I  shall  use,  not  be  used.  I  do  not 
limit  myself  here.  I  shall  not  allow  pos 
sessions  to  come  between  me  and  my  life  or 
my  friends." 

For  a  time  —  how  long  I  do  not  know  —  I 
stood  thinking.  Presently  I  discovered,  mov 
ing  slowly  along  the  margin  of  the  field  below 
me,  the  old  professor  with  his  tin  botany  box. 
And  somehow  I  had  no  feeling  that  he  was 
intruding  upon  my  new  land.  His  walk  was 
slow  and  methodical,  his  head  and  even  his 
shoulders  were  bent  —  almost  habitually  — 
from  looking  close  upon  the  earth,  and  from 


CONTENTMENT  33 

time  to  time  he  stooped,  and  once  he  knelt  to 
examine  some  object  that  attracted  his  eye. 
It  seemed  appropriate  that  he  should  thus 
kneel  to  the  earth.  So  he  gathered  his  crop 
and  fences  did  not  keep  him  out  nor  titles 
disturb  him.  He  also  was  free!  It  gave  me 
at  that  moment  a  peculiar  pleasure  to  have 
him  on  my  land,  to  know  that  I  wras,  if  uncon 
sciously,  raising  other  crops  than  I  knew.  I 
felt  friendship  for  this  old  professor:  I  could 
understand  him,  I  thought.  And  I  said  aloud 
but  in  a  low  tone,  as  though  I  were  addressing 
him; 

—  Do  not  apologise,  friend,  when  you 
come  into  my  field.  You  do  not  interrupt 
me.  What  you  have  come  for  is  of 
more  importance  at  this  moment  than  corn . 
Who  is  it  that  says  I  must  plow  so  many 
furrows  this  day?  Come  in,  friend,  and  sit 
here  on  these  clods:  we  will  sweeten  the 
evening  with  fine  words.  We  will  invest  our 
time  not  in  com,  or  in  cash,  but  in  life. — 

I  walked  with  confidence  down  the  hill 
toward  the  professor.  So  engrossed  was  he 
with  his  employment  that  he  did  not  see  me 
until  I  wras  within  a  few  paces  of  him.  When 
he  looked  up  at  me  it  was  as  though  his  eyes 


34  ADVENTURES  IN 

returned  from  some  far  journey.  I  felt  at 
first  out  of  focus,  unplaced,  and  only  gradually 
coming  into  view.  In  his  hand  he  held  a 
lump  of  earth  containing  a  thrifty  young  plant 
of  the  purple  cone-flower,  having  several 
blossoms.  He  worked  at  the  lump  deftly, 
delicately,  so  that  the  earth,  pinched,  pow 
dered  and  shaken  out,  fell  between  his  fingers, 
leaving  the  knotty  yellow  roots  in  his  hand. 
I  marked  how  firm,  slow,  brown,  the  old  man 
was,  how  little  obtrusive  in  my  field.  One 
foot  rested  in  a  iurrow,  the  other  was  set 
among  the  grass  of  the  margin,  near  the  fence 
—  his  place,  I  thought. 

His  first  words,  though  of  little  moment  in 
themselves,  gave  me  a  curious  satisfaction, 
as  when  a  coin,  tested,  rings  true  gold,  or  a 
hero,  tried,  is  heroic. 

"I  have  rarely,"  he  said,  "seen  a  finer  dis 
play  of  rudbeckia  than  this,  along  these  old 
fences." 

If  he  had  referred  to  me,  or  questioned,  or 
apologised,  I  should  have  been  disappointed. 
He  did  not  say,  "your  fences,"  he  said  "these 
fences,"  as  though  they  were  as  much  his  as 
mine.  And  he  spoke  in  his  own  world,  know 
ing  that  if  I  could  enter  I  would,  but  that  if 


CONTENTMENT  35 

I  could  not,  no  stooping  to  me  would  avail 
either  of  us. 

"It  has  been  a  good  autumn  for  flowers," 
I  said  inanely,  for  so  many  things  were  flying 
through  my  mind  that  I  could  not  at  once 
think  of  the  great  particular  words  which 
should  bring  us  together.  At  first  I  thought 
my  chance  had  passed,  but  he  seemed  to  see 
something  in  me  after  all,  for  he  said: 

"  Here  is  a  peculiarly  large  specimen  of  the 
rudbeckia.  Observe  the  deep  purple  of  the 
eone,  and  the  bright  yellow  of  the  petals. 
Here  is  another  that  grew  hardly  two  feet 
away,  in  the  grass  near  the  fence  where  the 
rails  and  the  blackberry  bushes  have  shaded 
it.  How  small  and  undeveloped  it  is." 

"They  crowd  up  to  the  plowed  land,"  I 
observed. 

"Yes,  they  reach  out  for  a  better  chance 
*n  life  —  like  men.  With  more  room,  better 
food,  freer  air,  you  see  how  much  finer  they 
grow." 

It  was  curious  to  me,  having  hitherto  barely 
observed  the  cone-flowers  along  my  fences, 
save  as  a  colour  of  beauty,  how  simply  we 
fell  to  talking  of  them  as  though  in  truth  they 
were  people  like  ourselves,  having  our  desires 


36  ADVENTURES  IN 

and  possessed  of  our  capabilities.  It  gave  me 
then,  for  the  first  time,  the  feeling  which  has 
since  meant  such  varied  enjoyment,  of  the 
peopling  of  the  woods. 

"See  here,"  he  said,  "how  different  the 
character  of  these  individuals.  They  are  all 
of  the  same  species.  They  all  grow  along 
this  fence  within  two  or  three  rods;  but  ob" 
serve  the  difference  not  only  in  size  but  in 
colouring,  in  the  shape  of  the  petals,  in  the 
proportions  of  the  cone.  What  does  it  all 
mean?  Why,  nature  trying  one  of  her  end 
less  experiments.  She  sows  here  broadly, 
trying  to  produce  better  cone-flowers.  A  few 
she  plants  on  the  edge  of  the  field  in  the  hope 
that  they  may  escape  the  plow.  If  they 
grow,  better  food  and  more  sunshine  produce 
more  and  larger  flowers." 

So  we  talked,  or  rather  he  talked,  finding 
in  me  an  eager  listener.  And  what  he  called 
botany  seemed  to  me  to  be  life.  Of  birth,  of 
growth,  of  reproduction,  of  death,  he  spoke, 
and  his  flowers  became  sentient  creatures 
under  my  eyes. 

And  thus  the  sun  went  down  and  the  purple 
mists  crept  silently  along  the  distant  low 
spots,  and  all  the  great,  great  mysteries  came 


CONTENTMENT  37 

and  stood  before  me  beckoning  and  question 
ing.  The)7  came  and  they  stood,  and  out  of 
the  cone-flower,  as  the  old  professor  spoke,  I 
seemed  to  catch  a  glimmer  of  the  true  light. 
I  reflected  how  truly  everything  is  in  any 
thing.  If  one  could  really  understand  a  cone- 
flower  he  could  understand  this  Earth. 
Botany  was  only  one  road  toward  the 
Explanation. 

Always  I  hope  that  some  traveller  may  have 
more  news  of  the  way  than  I,  and  sooner  or 
later,  I  find  I  must  make  inquiry  of  the  direc 
tion  of  every  thoughtful  man  I  meet.  And 
I  have  always  had  especial  hope  of  those  who 
study  the  sciences:  they  ask  such  intimate 
questions  of  nature.  Theology  possesses  a 
vain-gloriousness  which  places  its  faith  in 
human  theories;  but  science,  at  its  best,  is 
humble  before  nature  herself.  It  has  no 
thesis  to  defend:  it  is  content  to  kneel  upon 
the  earth,  in  the  way  of  my  friend,  the  old 
professor,  and  ask  the  simplest  questions, 
hoping  for  some  true  reply. 

I  wondered,  then,  what  the  professor 
thought,  after  his  years  of  work,  of  the 
Mystery;  and  finally,  not  without  confusion, 
I  asked  him.  He  listened,  for  the  first  time 


38  ADVENTURES  IN 

ceasing  to  dig,  shake  out  and  arrange  his 
specimens.  When  I  had  stopped  speaking  he 
remained  for  a  moment  silent,  then  he  looked 
at  me  with  a  new  regard.  Finally  he  quoted 
quietly,  but  with  a  deep  note  in  his  voice: 

"Canst  thou  by  searching  find  God  ?  Canst  thou 
find  out  the  Almighty  unto  perfection  ?  It  is  as  high 
as  heaven:  what  canst  thou  do  ?  deeper  than  hell, 
what  canst  thou  know  ?  " 

When  the  professor  had  spoken  we  stood 
for  a  moment  silent,  then  he  smiled  and  said 
briskly : 

"  I  have  been  a  botanist  for  fifty-four  years. 
When  I  was  a  boy  I  believed  implicitly  in 
God.  I  prayed  to  him,  having  a  vision  of 
him  —  a  person  —  before  my  eyes.  As  I 
grew  older  I  concluded  that  there  was  no  God. 
I  dismissed  him  from  the  universe.  I  believed 
only  in  what  I  could  see,  or  hear,  or  feel.  I 
talked  about  Nature  and  Reality." 

He  paused,  the  smile  still  lighting  his  face, 
evidently  recalling  to  himself  the  old  days. 
I  did  not  interrupt  him.  Finally  he  turned  to 
me  and  said  abruptly, 

"And  now  —  it  seems  to  me  —  there  is 
nothing  but  God." 


CONTENTMENT  39 

As  he  said  this  he  lifted  his  arm  with  a 
peculiar  gesture  that  seemed  to  take  in  the 
whole  world. 

For  a  time  we  were  both  silent.  When  I 
left  him  I  offered  my  hand  and  told  him 
I  hoped  I  might  become  his  friend.  So  I 
turned  my  face  toward  home.  Evening  was 
falling,  and  as  I  walked  I  heard  the  crows 
calling,  and  the  air  was  keen  and  cool,  and  I 
thought  deep  thoughts. 

And  so  I  stepped  into  the  darkened  stable. 
I  could  not  see  the  outlines  of  the  horse  or  the 
cow,  but  knowing  the  place  so  well  I  could 
easily  get  about.  I  heard  the  horse  step  aside 
with  a  soft  expectant  whinny.  I  smelled  the 
smell  of  milk,  the  musty,  sharp  odour  of  dry 
hay,  the  pungent  smell  of  manure,  not  un 
pleasant.  And  the  stable  was  warm  after 
the  cool  of  the  fields  with  a  sort  of  animal 
warmth  that  struck  into  me  soothingly.  I 
spoke  in  a  low  voice  and  laid  my  hand  on  the 
horse's  flank.  The  flesh  quivered  and  shrunk 
away  from  my  touch  —  coming  back  con 
fidently,  warmly.  I  ran  my  hand  along  his 
back  and  up  his  hairy  neck.  I  felt  his  sensi 
tive  nose  in  my  hand.  "  You  shall  have  your 
oats,"  I  said,  and  I  gave  him  to  eat.  Then 


46  ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT 

I  spoke  as  gently  to  the  cow,  and  she  stood 
aside  to  be  milked. 

And  afterward  I  came  out  into  the  cleai 
bright  night,  and  the  air  was  sweet  and  cool, 
and  my  dog  came  bounding  to  meet  me.  —  So 
I  carried  the  milk  into  the  house,  and  Harriet 
said  in  her  heartiest  tone : 

"  You  are  late,  David.  But  sit  up,  I  have 
kept  the  biscuits  warm." 

And  that  night  my  sleep  was  sound. 


IV 


I  ENTERTAIN  AN  AGENT  UNAWARES 

WITH  the  coming  of  winter  I  thought  the 
life  of  a  farmer  might  lose  something 
of  its  charm.  So  much  interest  lies  in  the 
growth  not  only  of  crops  but  of  trees,  vines, 
flowers,  sentiments  and  emotions.  In  the 
summer  the  world  is  busy,  concerned  with 
many  things  and  full  of  gossip:  in  the  winter 
I  anticipated  a  cessation  of  many  active 
interests  and  enthusiasms.  I  looked  forward 
to  having  time  for  my  books  and  for  the  quiet 
contemplation  of  the  life  around  me.  Sum 
mer  indeed  is  for  activity,  winter  for  reflection. 

41 


42  ADVENTURES  IN 

But  when  winter  really  came  every  day  dis 
covered  some  new  work  to  do  or  some  new 
adventure  to  enjoy.  It  is  surprising  how 
many  things  happen  on  a  small  farm.  Exam 
ining  the  book  which  accounts  for  that  winter, 
I  find  the  history  of  part  of  a  forenoon,  which 
will  illustrate  one  of  the  curious  adventures 
of  a  farmer's  life.  It  is  dated  January  5. 

I  went  out  this  morning  with  my  axe  and 
hammer  to  mend  the  fence  along  the  public 
road.  A  heavy  frost  fell  last  night  and  the 
brown  grass  and  the  dry  ruts  of  the  roads 
were  powdered  white.  Even  the  air,  which 
was  perfectly  still,  seemed  full  of  frost  crystals, 
so  that  when  the  sun  came  up  one  seemed  to 
walk  in  a  magic  world.  I  drew  in  a  long 
breath  and  looked  out  across  the  wonderful 
shining  country  and  I  said  to  myself: 

"Surely,  there  is  nowhere  I  would  rather 
be  than  here."  For  I  could  have  travelled 
nowhere  to  find  greater  beauty  or  a  better 
enjoyment  of  it  than  I  had  here  at  home. 

As  I  worked  with  my  axe  and  hammer,  I 
heard  a  light  wagon  come  rattling  up  the 
road.  Across  the  valley  a  man  had  begun 
to  chop  a  tree.  I  could  see  the  axe  steel  flash 


CONTENTMENT  43 

brilliantly  in  the  sunshine  before  I  heard  the 
sound  of  the  blow. 

The  man  in  the  wagon  had  a  round  face  and 
a  sharp  blue  eye.  I  thought  he  seemed  a 
businesslike  young  man. 

"Say,  there,"  he  shouted,  drawing  up  at 
my  gate,  "would  you  mind  holding  my  horse 
a  minute?  It 's  a  cold  morning  and  he  's 
restless." 

"Certainly  not,"  I  said,  and  I  put  down 
my  tools  and  held  his  horse. 

He  walked  up  to  my  door  with  a  brisk  step 
and  a  certain  jaunty  poise  of  the  head. 

"He  is  well  contented  with  himself,"  I 
said.  "It  is  a  great  blessing  for  any  man  to 
be  satisfied  with  what  he  has  got." 

I  heard  Harriet  open  the  door  —  how  every 
sound  rang  through  the  still  morning  air! 

The  young  man  asked  some  question  and 
I  distinctly  heard  Harriet's  answer: 

"He's  down  there." 

The  young  man  came  back:  his  hat  was 
tipped  up,  his  quick  eye  darted  over  my 
grounds  as  though  in  a  single  instant  he  had 
appraised  everything  and  passed  judgment 
upon  the  cash  value  of  the  inhabitants.  He 
whistled  a  lively  little  tune. 


44  ADVENTURES  IN 

"Say,''  he  said,  when  he  reached  the  gate, 
not  at  all  disconcerted,  "I  thought  you  was 
the  hired  man.  Your  name  's  Grayson,  ain't 
it?  Well,  I  want  to  talk  with  you." 

After  tying  and  blanketing  his  horse  and 
taking  a 'black  satchel  from  his  buggy  he  led 
me  up  to  my  house.  I  had  a  pleasurable 
sense  of  excitement  and  adventure.  Here 
was  a  new  character  come  to  my  farm.  Who 
knows,  I  thought,  what  he  may  bring  with 
him:  who  knows  what  I  may  send  away  by 
him?  Here  in  the  country  we  must  set  our 
little  ships  afloat  on  small  streams,  hoping 
that  somehow,  some  day,  they  will  reach  the 
sea. 

It  was  interesting  to  see  the  busy  young 
man  sit  down  so  confidently  in  our  best  chair. 
He  said  his  name  was  Dixon,  and  he  took 
out  from  his  satchel  a  book  with  a  fine  showy 
cover.  He  said  it  was  called  "Living  Selec 
tions  from  Poet,  Sage  and  Humourist." 

"This,"  he  told  me,  " is  only  the  first  of  the 
series.  We  publish  six  volumes  full  of  liter- 
choor.  You  see  what  a  heavy  book  this  is?" 

I  tested  it  in  my  hand :  it  was  a  heavy  book. 

"The  entire  set,"  he  said,  "weighs  over  ten 
pounds.  There  are  1,162  pages,  enough  paper 


CONTENTMENT  45 

ff  laid  down  flat,  end  to  end,  to  reach  half  a 
mile." 

I  cannot  quote  his  exact  language:  there 
was  too  much  of  it,  but  he  made  an  impres 
sive  showing  of  the  amount  of  literature  that 
could  be  had  at  a  very  low  price  per  pound. 
Mr.  Dixon  was  a  hypnotist.  He  fixed  me 
with  his  glittering  eye,  and  he  talked  so  fast, 
and  his  ideas  upon  the  subject  were  so  original 
that  he  held  me  spellbound.  At  first  I  was 
inclined  to  be  provoked:  one  does  not  like  to 
be  forcibly  hypnotised,  but  gradually  the 
situation  began  to  amuse  me,  the  more  so 
when  Harriet  came  in. 

"Did  you  ever  see  a  more  beautiful  bind 
ing?"  asked  the  agent,  holding  his  book 
admiringly  at  arm's  length.  "This  up  here," 
he  said,  pointing  to  the  illuminated  cover, 
"is  the  Muse  of  Poetry.  She  is  scattering 
flowers  —  poems,  you  know.  Fine  idea,  ain't 
it?  Colouring  fine,  too." 

He  jumped  up  quickly  and  laid  the  book 
on  my  table,  to  the  evident  distress  of  Harriet 

"Trims  up  the  room,  don't  it?"  he  ex 
claimed,  turning  his  head  a  little  to  one  side 
and  observing  the  effect  with  an  expression  of 
affectionate  admiration. 


46  ADVENTURES  IN 

"How  much,"  I  asked,  "will  you  sell  the 
covers  for  without  the  insides?" 

"Without  the  insides?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "the  binding  will  trim  up 
my  table  just  as  well  without  the  insides." 

I  thought  he  looked  at  me  a  little  sus 
piciously,  but  he  was  evidently  satisfied  by 
my  expression  of  countenance,  for  he  answered 
promptly: 

"  Oh,  but  you  want  the  insides.  That 's 
what  the  books  are  for.  The  bindings  are 
never  sold  alone." 

He  then  went  on  to  tell  me  the  prices  and 
terms  of  payment,  until  it  really  seemed  that 
it  would  be  cheaper  to  buy  the  books  than 
to  let  him  carry  them  away  again.  Harriet 
stood  in  the  doorway  behind  him  frowning  and 
evidently  trying  to  catch  my  eye.  But 
I  kept  my  face  turned  aside  so  that  I  could 
not  see  her  signal  of  distress  and  my  eyes 
fixed  on  the  young  man  Dixon.  It  was  as 
good  as  a  play.  Harriet  there,  serious- 
minded,  thinking  I  was  being  befooled,  and 
the  agent  thinking  he  was  befooling  me,  and 
I,  thinking  I  was  befooling  both  of  them  — 
and  all  of  us  wrong.  It  was  very  like  life 
Wherever  you  find  it. 


CONTENTMENT  47 

Finally,  I  took  the  book  which  he  had 
been  urging  upon  me,  at  which  Harriet 
coughed  meaningly  to  attract  my  attention. 
She  knew  the  danger  when  I  really  got  my 
hands  on  a  book.  But  I  made  up  as  inno 
cent  as  a  child.  I  opened  the  book  almost  at 
random  —  and  it  was  as  though,  walking 
down  a  strange  road,  I  had  come  upon  an  old 
tried  friend  not  seen  before  in  years.  For 
there  on  the  page  before  me  I  read : 

"The  world  is  too  much  with  us;  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending  we  lay  waste  our  powers: 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon! 
The  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon ; 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 
But  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers; 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune; 
It  moves  us  not." 

And  as  I  read  it  came  back  to  me  —  a 
scene  like  a  picture  —  the  place,  the  time,  the 
very  feel  of  the  hour  when  I  first  saw  those 
lines.  Who  shall  say  that  the  past  does  not 
live!  An  odour  will  sometimes  set  the  blood 
coursing  in  an  old  emotion,  and  a  line  of  poetry 
is  the  resurrection  and  the  life.  For  a  moment 
I  forgot  Harriet  and  the  agent,  I  forgot 


48  ADVENTURES  IN 

myself,  I  even  forgot  the  book  on  my  knee  — • 
everything  but  that  hour  in  the  past  —  a 
view  of  shimmering  hot  housetops,  the  heat 
and  dust  and  noise  of  an  August  evening  in 
the  city,  the  dumb  weariness  of  it  all,  the 
loneliness,  the  longing  for  green  fields;  and 
then  these  great  lines  of  Wordsworth,  read 
for  the  first  time,  flooding  in  upon  me: 

"Great  God!  I  'd  rather  be 
A  pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn: 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 

Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn ; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea ; 
And  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn." 

When  I  had  finished  I  found  myself  stand 
ing  in  my  own  room  with  one  arm  raised,  and, 
I  suspect,  a  trace  of  tears  in  my  eyes  —  there 
before  the  agent  and  Harriet.  I  saw  Harriet 
lift  one  hand  and  drop  it  hopelessly.  She 
thought  I  was  captured  at  last.  I  was  past 
saving.  And  as  I  looked  at  the  agent  I  saw 
"grim  conquest  glowing  in  his  eye!"  So  I 
sat  down  not  a  little  embarrassed  by  my 
exhibition  —  when  I  had  intended  to  be 
self -poised. 

"You  like  it,  don't  you?"  said  Mr.  Dixon 
unctuously. 


CONTENTMENT  49 

"I  don't  see,"  I  said  earnestly,  "how  you 
can  afford  to  sell  such  things  as  this  so 
cheap." 

"They  are  cheap,"  he  admitted  regretfully. 
I  suppose  he  wished  he  had  tried  me  with 
the  half -morocco. 

"They  are  priceless,"  I  said,  "absolutely 
priceless.  If  you  were  the  only  man  in  the 
world  who  had  that  poem,  I  think  I  would 
deed  you  my  farm  for  it." 

Mr.  Dixon  proceeded,  as  though  it  were  all 
settled,  to  get  out  his  black  order  book  and 
open  it  briskly  for  business.  He  drew  his 
fountain  pen,  capped  it,  and  looked  up  at 
me  expectantly.  My  feet  actually  seemed 
slipping  into  some  irresistible  whirlpool.  How 
well  he  understood  practical  psychology!  I 
struggled  within  myself,  fearing  engulfment: 
I  was  all  but  lost. 

"Shall  I  deliver  the  set  at  once,"  he  said, 
"or  can  you  wait  until  the  first  of  February?" 

At  that  critical  moment  a  floating  spar  of  an 
idea  swept  my  way  and  I  seized  upon  it  as  the 
last  hope  of  the  lost. 

"I  don't  understand,"  I  said,  as  though  I 
had  not  heard  his  last  question,  "how  you 
dare  go  about  with  all  this  treasure  upon  you, 


Did  you  ever  see  a  more  beautiful  binding?" 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  51 

Are  you  not  afraid  of  being  stopped  in  the 
road  and  robbed  ?  Why,  I ' ve  seen  the  time 
when,  if  I  had  known  you  carried  such  things 
as  these,  such  cures  for  sick  hearts,  I  think  I 
should  have  stopped  you  myself!" 

"Say,  you  are  an  odd  one,"  said  Mr.  Dixon. 

"Why  do  you  sell  such  priceless  things  as 
these?"  I  asked,  looking  at  him  sharply. 

"Why  do  I  sell  them?"  and  he  looked 
still  more  perplexed.  "To  make  money,  of 
course;  same  reason  you  raise  corn." 

"But  here  is  wealth,"  I  said,  pursuing  my 
advantage.  "If  you  have  these  you  have 
something  more  valuable  than  money." 

Mr.  Dixon  politely  said  nothing.  Like  a 
wise  angler,  having  failed  to  land  me  at  the 
first  rush,  he  let  me  have  line.  Then  I  thought 
of  Ruskin's  words,  "  Nor  can  any  noble  thing 
be  wealth  except  to  a  noble  person."  And 
that  prompted  me  to  say  to  Mr.  Dixon: 

"These  things  are  not  yours;  they  are 
mine.  You  never  owned  them;  but  I  will 
sell  them  to  you." 

He  looked  at  me  in  amazement,  and  then 
glanced  around  —  evidently  to  discover  if 
there  were  a  convenient  way  of  escape. 

"You  're  all  straight,  are  you?"  he  asked. 


52  ADVENTURES  IN 

tapping  his  forehead;  "didn't  anybody  ever 
try  to  take  you  up? " 

"The  covers  are  yours,"  I  continued  as 
though  I  had  not  heard  him,  "  the  insides  are 
mine  and  have  been  for  a  long  time:  that 
is  why  I  proposed  buying  the  covers 
separately." 

I  opened  his  book  again.  I  thought  I 
would  see  what  had  been  chosen  for  its 
pages.  And  I  found  there  many  fine  and 
great  things. 

"Let  me  read  you  this,"  I  said  to  Mr. 
Dixon;  "it  has  been  mine  for  a  long  time.  1 
will  not  sell  it  to  you.  I  will  give  it  to  you 
outright.  The  best  things  are  always  given." 

Having  some  gift  in  imitating  the  Scotch 
dialect,  I  read: 

"November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sugh; 

The  shortening  winter    day  is  near  a  close; 
The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh ; 

The  black'ning  trains  o'  craws  to  their  repose: 
The  toil-worn  Cotter  frae  his  labour  goes, 

This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end, 
Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks  and  his  hoes, 

Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend, 
And    weary,   o'er  the  moor,   his  course  does 

hameward  bend." 

So  I  read  "The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night." 


CONTENTMENT  53 

I  love  the  poem  very  much  myself,  some 
times  reading  it  aloud,  not  so  much  for  the 
tenderness  of  its  message,  though  I  prize 
that,  too,  as  for  the  wonder  of  its  music. 

"Compar'd  with  these,  Italian  trills  are  tame; 
The  tickl'd  ear  no  heart-felt  raptures  raise." 

I  suppose  I  showed  my  feeling  in  my  voice. 
As  I  glanced  up  from  time  to  time  I  saw  the 
agent's  face  change,  and  his  look  deepen  and 
the  lips,  usually  so  energetically  tense,  loosen 
with  emotion.  Surely  no  poem  in  all  the 
language  conveys  so  perfectly  the  simple  love 
of  the  home,  the  quiet  joys,  hopes,  pathos  of 
those  who  live  close  to  the  soil. 

When  I  had  finished  —  I  stopped  with  the 
stanza  beginning: 

"Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  sev'ral  way"; 

the  agent  turned  away  his  head  trying  to 
brave  out  his  emotion.  Most  of  us,  Anglo- 
Saxons,  tremble  before  a  tear  when  we  might 
fearlessly  beard  a  tiger. 

I  moved  up  nearer  to  the  agent  and  put 
my  hand  on  his  knee;  then  I  read  two  or 
three  of  the  other  things  I  found  in  his 
wonderful  book.  And  once  I  had  him  laugh- 


54  ADVENTURES  IN 

ing  and  once  again  I  had  the  tears  in  his 
eyes.  Oh,  a  simple  young  man,  a  little 
crusty  without,  but  soft  inside  —  like  the 
rest  of  us. 

Well,  it  was  amazing  once  we  began  talking 
not  of  books  but  of  life,  how  really  eloquent 
and  human  he  became.  From  being  a  distant 
and  uncomfortable  person,  he  became  at  once 
like  a  near  neighbour  and  friend.  It  was 
strange  to  me  —  as  I  have  thought  since  — 
how  he  conveyed  to  us  in  few  words  the 
essential  emotional  note  of  his  life.  It  was  no 
violin  tone,  beautifully  complex  with  har 
monics,  but  the  clear  simple  voice  of  the  flute. 
It  spoke  of  his  wife  and  his  baby  girl  and  his 
home.  The  very  incongruity  of  detail  —  he 
told  us  how  he  grew  onions  in  his  back  yard  — 
added  somehow  to  the  homely  glamour  of  the 
vision  which  he  gave  us.  The  number  of  his 
house,  the  fact  that  he  had  a  new  cottage 
organ,  and  that  the  baby  ran  away  and  lost 
herself  in  Seventeenth  Street  —  were  all, 
curiously,  fabrics  of  his  emotion. 

It  was  beautiful  to  see  commonplace  facts 
grow  phosphorescent  in  the  heat  of  true  feel 
ing.  How  little  we  may  come  to  know 
Romance  by  the  cloak  she  wears  and  how 


CONTENTMENT  55 

humble  must  be  he  who  would  surprise  the 
heart  of  her! 

It  was,  indeed,  with  an  indescribable  thrill 
that  I  heard  him  add  the  details,  one  by  one 
—  the  mortgage  on  his  place,  now  rapidly 
being  paid  off,  the  brother  who  was  a  plumberr 
the  mother-in-law  who  was  not  a  mother-in- 
law  of  the  comic  papers.  And  finally  he 
showed  us  the  picture  of  the  wife  and  baby 
that  he  had  in  the  cover  of  his  watch;  a  fat 
baby  with  its  head  resting  on  its  mother's 
shoulder. 

"Mister,"  he  said,  "p'raps  you  think  it's 
fun  to  ride  around  the  country  like  I  do,  and 
be  away  from  home  most  of  the  time.  But 
it  ain't.  When  I  think  of  Minnie  and  the 
kid- 

He  broke  off  sharply,  as  if  he  had  suddenly 
remembered  the  shame  of  such  confidences. 

"Say,"  he  asked,  "what  page  is  that  poem 
on?"  ' 

I  told  him. 

"One  forty-six,"  he  said.  "When  I  get 
home  I  'm  going  to  read  that  to  Minnie.  She 
likes  poetry  and  all  such  things.  And  where 's 
that  other  piece  that  tells  how  a  man  feels 
when  he 's  lonesome?  Say,  that  fellow  knew!** 


56  ADVENTURES  IN 

We  had  a  genuinely  good  time,  the  agent 
and  I,  and  when  he  finally  rose  to  go,  I  said: 

"  Well,  I  've  sold  you  a  new  book." 

"  I  see  now,  mister,  what  you  mean." 

I  went  down  the  path  with  him  and  began 
to  unhitch  his  horse. 

"Let  me,  let  me,"  he  said  eagerly. 

Then  he  shook  hands,  paused  a  moment 
awkwardly  as  if  about  to  say  something,  then 
sprang  into  his  buggy  without  saying  it. 

When  he  had  taken  up  his  reins  he  remarked : 

"Say!  but  you  'd  make  an  agent!  You  'd 
hypnotise  'em." 

I  recognised  it  as  the  greatest  compliment 
he  could  pay  me:  the  craft  compliment. 

Then  he  drove  off,  but  pulled  up  before  he 
had  gone  five  yards.  He  turned  in  his  seat, 
one  hand  on  the  back  of  it,  his  whip  raised. 

"Say!"  he  shouted,  and  when  I  walked  up 
he  looked  at  me  with  fine  embarrassment. 

"Mister,  perhaps  you  'd  accept  one  of  these 
sets  from  Dixon  free  gratis,  for  nothing." 

"I  understand,"  I  said,  "but  you  know 
I  'm  giving  the  books  to  you  —  and  I  could  n't 
take  them  back  again." 

"Well,"  he  said,  "you  're  a  good  one,  any 
how.  Good-bye  again,"  and  then,  suddenly, 


CONTENTMENT 


57 


business  naturally  coming  uppermost,  he 
remarked  with  great  enthusiasm: 

"  You  've  given  me  a  new  idea.  Say,  I  '11 
sell  'em." 

"Carry  them  carefully,  man,"  I  called 
after  him;  "they  are  precious." 

So  I  went  back  to  my  work,  thinking  how 
many  fine  people  there  are  in  this  world  — 
if  you  scratch  'em  deep  enough. 


«'  Horace  '  hefted  » it  " 


V 

THE  AXE-HELVE 

April  the  i$th. 

THIS  morning  I  broke  my  old  axe  handle. 
I  went  out  early  while  the  fog  still  filled 
the  valley  and  the  air  was  cool  and  moist  as 
it  had  come  fresh  from  the  filter  of  the  night. 
I  drew  a  long  breath  and  let  my  axe  fall  with 
all  the  force  I  could  give  it  upon  a  new  oak  log. 
I  swung  it  unnecessarily  high  for  the  joy  of 

doing  it  and  when  it  struck  it  communicated 

$8 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  59 

a  sharp  yet  not  unpleasant  sting  to  the 
palms  of  my  hands.  The  handle  broke  short 
off  at  the  point  where  the  helve  meets  the 
steel.  The  blade  was  driven  deep  in  the  oak 
wood.  I  suppose  I  should  have  regretted 
my  foolishness,  but  I  did  not.  The  handle 
was  old  and  somewhat  worn,  and  the  accident 
gave  me  an  indefinable  satisfaction:  the  cul 
mination  of  use,  that  final  destruction  which 
is  the  complement  of  great  effort. 

This  feeling  was  also  partly  prompted  by 
the  thought  of  the  new  helve  I  already  had 
in  store,  awaiting  just  such  a  catastrophe. 
Having  come  somewhat  painfully  by  that 
helve,  I  really  wanted  to  see  it  in  use. 

Last  spring,  walking  in  my  fields,  I  looked 
out  along  the  fences  for  a  well-fitted  young" 
hickory  tree  of  thrifty  second  growth,  bare 
of  knots  at  least  head  high,  without  the 
cracks  or  fissures  of  too  rapid  growth  or  the 
doziness  of  early  transgression.  What  I  de 
sired  was  a  fine,  healthy  tree  fitted  for  a  great 
purpose  and  I  looked  for  it  as  I  would  look 
for  a  perfect  man  to  save  a  failing  cause.  At 
last  I  found  a  sapling  growing  in  one  of  the 
sheltered  angles  of  my  rail  fence.  It  was  set 
about  by  dry  grass,  overhung  by  a  much 


60  ADVENTURES  IN 

larger  cherry  tree,  and  bearing  still  its  with 
ered  last  year's  leaves,  worn  diaphanous  but 
curled  delicately,  and  of  a  most  beautiful 
ash  gray  colour,  something  like  the  fabric  of 
a  wasp's  nest,  only  yellower.  I  gave  it  a 
shake  and  it  sprung  quickly  under  my  hand 
like  the  muscle  of  a  good  horse.  Its  bark 
was  smooth  and  trim,  its  bole  well  set  and 
solid. 

A  perfect  tree!  So  I  came  up  again  with 
my  short  axe  and  after  clearing  away  the 
grass  and  leaves  with  which  the  wind  had 
mulched  it,  I  cut  into  the  clean  white  roots. 
I  had  no  twinge  of  compunction,  for  was  this 
not  fulfillment?  Nothing  comes  of  sorrow 
for  worthy  sacrifice.  When  I  had  laid  the 
tree  low,  I  clipped  off  the  lower  branches, 
snapped  off  the  top  with  a  single  clean  stroke 
of  the  axe,  and  shouldered  as  pretty  a  second- 
growth  sapling  stick  as  anyone  ever  laid  his 
eyes  upon. 

I  carried  it  down  to  my  barn  and  put  it  on 
the  open  rafters  over  the  cow  stalls.  A  cow 
stable  is  warm  and  not  too  dry,  so  that  a 
hickory  log  cures  slowly  without  cracking  or 
checking.  There  it  lay  for  many  weeks. 
Often  I  cast  my  eyes  up  at  it  with  satisfaction. 


CONTENTMENT  61 

watching  the  bark  shrink  and  slightly  deepen 
in  colour,  and  once  I  climbed  up  where  I 
sould  see  the  minute  seams  making  way  in 
the  end  of  the  stick. 

In  the  summer  I  brought  the  stick  into  the 
House,  and  put  it  in  the  dry,  warm  storeroom 
over  the  kitchen  where  I  keep  my  seed  corn. 
I  do  not  suppose  it  really  needed  further 
attention,  but  sometimes  when  I  chanced  to 
go  into  the  storeroom,  I  turned  it  over  with 
my  foot.  I  felt  a  sort  of  satisfaction  in  know 
ing  that  it  was  in  preparation  for  service: 
good  material  for  useful  work.  So  it  lay 
during  the  autumn  and  far  into  the  winter. 

One  cold  night  when  I  sat  comfortably  at 
my  fireplace,  listening  to  the  wind  outside, 
and  feeling  all  the  ease  of  a  man  at  peace  with 
himself,  my  mind  took  flight  to  my  snowy 
field  sides  and  I  thought  of  the  trees  there 
waiting  and  resting  through  the  winter.  So 
I  came  in  imagination  to  the  particular  corner 
in  the  fence  where  I  had  cut  my  hickory  sapling. 
Instantly  I  started  up,  much  to  Harriet's  aston 
ishment,  and  made  my  way  mysteriously  up 
the  kitchen  stairs.  I  would  not  tell  what 
I  was  after:  I  felt  it  a  sort  of  adventure, 
almost  like  the  joy  of  seeing  a  friend  long 


62  ADVENTURES  IN 

forgotten.  It  was  as  if  my  hickory  stick  had 
cried  out  at  last,  after  long  chrysalishood : 

"  I  am  ready." 

I  stood  it  on  end  and  struck  it  sharply  with 
my  knuckles:  it  rang  out  with  a  certain  clear 
resonance. 

"I  am  ready." 

I  sniffed  at  the  end  of  it.  It  exhaled  a 
peculiar  good  smell,  as  of  old  fields  in  the 
autumn. 

"  I  am  ready." 

So  I  took  it  under  my  arm  and  carried  it 
down. 

"Mercy,  what  are  you  going  to  do?"  ex 
claimed  Harriet. 

"Deliberately,  and  with  malice  afore 
thought,"  I  responded,  "I  am  going  to  litter 
tip  your  floor.  I  have  decided  to  be  reckless. 
I  don't  care  what  happens." 

Having  made  this  declaration,  which  Har 
riet  received  with  becoming  disdain,  I  laid 
the  log  by  the  fireplace  —  not  too  near  — • 
and  went  to  fetch  a  saw,  a  hammer,  a  small 
wedge,  and  a  draw-shave. 

I  split  my  log  into  as  fine  white  sections  as 
a  man  ever  saw  —  every  piece  as  straight  as 
morality,  and  without  so  much  as  a  sliver  to 


CONTENTMENT  63 

mar  it.  Nothing  is  so  satisfactory  as  to  have 
a  task  come  out  in  perfect  time  and  in  good 
order.  The  little  pieces  of  bark  and  sawdust 
I  swept  scrupulously  into  the  fireplace,  look 
ing  up  from  time  to  time  to  see  how  Harriet 
was  taking  it.  Harriet  was  still  disdainful. 

Making  an  axe-helve  is  like  writing  a  poem 
(though  I  never  wrote  one).  The  material  is 
free  enough,  but  it  takes  a  poet  to  use  it. 
Some  people  imagine  that  any  fine  thought 
is  poetry,  but  there  was  never  a  greater  mis 
take.  A  fine  thought,  to  become  poetry 
must  be  seasoned  in  the  upper  warm  garrets 
of  the  mind  for  long  and  long,  then  it  must  be 
brought  down  and  slowly  carved  into  words, 
shaped  with  emotion,  polished  with  love. 
Else  it  is  no  true  poem.  Some  people  imagine 
that  any  hickory  stick  will  make  an  axe- 
helve.  But  this  is  far  from  the  truth.  When 
I  had  whittled  away  for  several  evenings 
with  my  draw-shave  and  jack-knife,  both  of 
which  I  keep  sharpened  to  the  keenest  edge, 
I  found  that  my  work  was  not  progressing  as 
well  as  I  had  hoped. 

"This  is  more  of  a  task,"  I  remarked  one 
evening,  "than  I  had  imagined." 

Harriet,  rocking  placidly  in  her  arm-chair, 


64  ADVENTURES  IN 

was  mending  a  number  of  pairs  of  new  socks. 
Poor  Harriet!  Lacking  enough  old  holes  to 
occupy  her  energies,  she  mends  holes  that 
may  possibly  appear.  A  frugal  person! 

"Well,  David,"  she  said,  "I  warned  you 
that  you  could  buy  a  helve  cheaper  than  you 
could  make  it." 

"So  I  can  buy  a  book  cheaper  than  I  can 
write  it,"  I  responded. 

I  felt  somewhat  pleased  with  my  return 
shot,  though  I  took  pains  not  to  show  it.  I 
squinted  along  my  hickory  stick  which  was 
even  then  beginning  to  assume,  rudely,  the 
outlines  of  an  axe-handle.  I  had  made  a 
prodigious  pile  of  fine  white  shavings  and  I 
was  tired,  but  quite  suddenly  there  came  over 
me  a  sort  of  love  for  that  length  of  wood. 
I  sprung  it  affectionately  over  my  knee,  I 
rubbed  it  up  and  down  with  my  hand,  and 
then  I  set  it  in  the  corner  behind  the  fireplace. 

"After  all,"  I  said,  for  I  had  really  been 
disturbed  by  Harriet's  remark — "after  all, 
power  over  one  thing  gives  us  power  over 
everything.  When  you  mend  socks  pro- 
spectively  —  into  futurity  —  Harriet,  that  is 
an  evidence  of  true  greatness." 

"Sometimes    I    think    it    doesn't    pay/ 


CONTENTMENT  65 

remarked  Harriet,  though  she  was  plainly 
pleased. 

"Pretty  good  socks,"  I  said,  "can  be 
bought  for  fifteen  cents  a  pair." 

Harriet  looked  at  me  suspiciously,  but  I 
was  as  sober  as  the  face  of  nature. 

For  the  next  two  or  three  evenings  I  let 
the  axe-helve  stand  alone  in  the  corner.  I 
hardly  looked  at  it,  though  once  in  a  while, 
when  occupied  with  some  other  work,  I 
would  remember,  or  rather  half  remember,  that 
I  had  a  pleasure  in  store  for  the  evening.  The 
very  thought  of  sharp  tools  and  something 
to  make  with  them  acts  upon  the  imagination 
with  peculiar  zest.  So  we  love  to  employ 
the  keen  edge  of  the  mind  upon  a  knotty  and 
difficult  subject. 

One  evening  the  Scotch  preacher  came  in. 
We  love  him  very  much,  though  he  sometimes 
makes  us  laugh  —  perhaps,  in  part,  because 
he  makes  us  laugh.  Externally  he  is  a  sort 
of  human  cocoanut,  rough,  brown,  shaggy, 
but  within  he  has  the  true  milk  of  human 
kindness.  Some  of  his  qualities  touch  great 
ness.  His  youth  was  spent  in  stony  places 
^here  strong  winds  blew;  the  trees  where  he 
«zrew  bore  thorns;  the  soil  where  he  dug  wa? 


66  ADVENTURES  IN 

full  of  roots.  But  the  crop  was  human  love! 
He  possesses  that  quality,  unusual  in  one  bred 
exclusively  in  the  country,  of  magnanimity 
toward  the  unlike.  In  the  country  we  are 
tempted  to  throw  stones  at  strange  hats! 
But  to  the  Scotch  preacher  every  man  in  one 
way  seems  transparent  to  the  soul.  He  sees 
the  man  himself,  not  his  professions  any  more 
than  his  clothes.  And  I  never  knew  anyone 
who  had  such  an  abiding  disbelief  in  the 
wickedness  of  the  human  soul.  Weakness  he 
sees  and  comforts;  wickedness  he  cannot  see. 

When  he  came  in  I  was  busy  whittling  my 
axe-helve,  it  being  my  pleasure  at  that  mo 
ment  to  make  long,  thin,  curly  shavings  so 
light  that  many  of  them  were  caught  on  the 
hearth  and  bowled  by  the  draught  straight 
to  fiery  destruction. 

There  is  a  noisy  zest  about  the  Scotch 
preacher:  he  comes  in  "stomping"  as  we  say, 
he  must  clear  his  throat,  he  must  strike  his 
hands  together ;  he  even  seems  noisy  when  he 
unwinds  the  thick  red  tippet  which  he  wears 
wound  many  times  around  his  neck.  It 
takes  him  a  long  time  to  unwind  it,  and  he 
accomplishes  the  task  with  many  slow  gyra 
tions  of  his  enormous  rough  head.  When  he 


CONTENTMENT  67 

sits  down  he  takes  merely  the  edge  of  the  chair, 
spreads  his  stout  legs  apart,  sits  as  straight 
as  a  post,  and  blows  his  nose  with  a  noise  like 
the  falling  of  a  tree. 

His  interest  in  everything  is  prodigious. 
When  he  saw  what  I  was  doing  he  launched 
at  once  upon  an  account  of  the  methods  of 
axe-helving,  ancient  and  modern,  with  true 
incidents  of  his  childhood. 

"Man,"  he  exclaimed,  "you've  clean  for 
gotten  one  of  the  preenciple  refinements  of  the 
art.  When  you  chop,  which  hand  do  you 
hold  down?" 

At  the  moment,  I  could  n't  have  told  to 
save  my  life,  so  we  both  got  up  on  our  feet 
and  tried. 

"It's  the  right  hand  down,"  I  decided; 
"  that  's  natural  to  me." 

"  You  're  a  normal  right-handed  chopper, 
then,"  said  the  Scotch  preacher,  "as  I  was 
thinking.  Now  let  me  instruct  you  in  the 
art.  Being  right-handed,  your  helve  must 
bow  out  —  so.  No  first-class  chopper  uses  a 
straight  handle." 

He  fell  to  explaining,  with  gusto,  the  mys 
teries  of  the  bowed  handle,  and  as  I  listened 
I  felt  a  new  and  peculiar  interest  in  my  task. 


68  ADVENTURES  IN 

This  was  a  final  perfection  to  be  accomplished, 
the  finality  of  technique ! 

So  we  sat  with  our  heads  together  talking 
helves  and  axes,  axes  with  single  blades  and 
axes  with  double  blades,  and  hand  axes  and 
great  choppers'  axes,  and  the  science  of  felling 
trees,  with  the  true  philosophy  of  the  last 
chip,  and  arguments  as  to  the  best  procedure 
when  a  log  begins  to  "pinch" — until  a 
listener  would  have  thought  that  the  art  of 
the  chopper  included  the  whole  philosophy 
of  existence  —  as  indeed  it  does,  if  you 
look  at  it  in  that  way.  Finally  I  rushed 
out  and  brought  in  my  old  axe-handle, 
and  we  set  upon  it  like  true  artists,  with 
critical  proscription  for  being  a  trivial 
product  of  machinery. 

"Man,"  exclaimed  the  preacher,  "it  has 
no  character.  Now  your  helve  here,  being 
the  vision  of  your  brain  and  work  of  your 
hands,  will  interpret  the  thought  of  your 
heart." 

Before  the  Scotch  preacher  had  finished 
his  disquisition  upon  the  art  of  helve-making 
and  its  relations  with  all  other  arts,  I  felt  like 
Peary  discovering  the  Pole. 

In  the  midst  of  the  discourse,  while  I  was 


CONTENTMENT  69 

soaring  high,  the  Scotch  preacher  suddenly 
stopped,  sat  up,  and  struck  his  knee  with  a 
tremendous  resounding  smack. 

"Spoons!"  he  exclaimed. 

Harriet  and  I  stopped  and  looked  at  him 
in  astonishment. 

"Spoons,"  repeated  Harriet. 

"  Spoons,"  said  the  Scotch  preacher.  "  I  've 
not  once  thought  of  my  errand ;  and  my  wife 
told  me  to  come  straight  home.  I  'm  more 
thoughtless  every  day!" 

Then  he  turned  to  Harriet: 

"I  've  been  sent  to  borrow  some  spoons," 
he  said. 

"Spoons!"  exclaimed   Harriet. 

"Spoons,"  answered  the  Scotch  preacher. 
"  We  've  invited  friends  for  dinner  to-morrow, 
and  we  must  have  spoons." 

"But  why  —  how  —  I  thought "be 
gan  Harriet,  still  in  astonishment. 

The  Scotch  preacher  squared  around  toward 
her  and  cleared  his  throat. 

"It's  the  baptisms,"  he  said:  "when  a 
baby  is  brought  for  baptism,  of  course  it  must 
have  a  baptismal  gift.  What  is  the  best  gift 
for  a  baby  ?  A  spoon.  So  we  present  it  with 
e,  spoon.  To-day  we  discovered  we  had  only 


LET  MY  AXE  TALL 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  71 

three    spoons    left,    and    company    coming. 
Man,  'tis  a  proleefic  neighbourhood." 

He  heaved  a  great  sigh. 

Harriet  rushed  out  and  made  up  a  package. 
When  she  came  in  I  thought  it  seemed  sus 
piciously  large  for  spoons,  but  the  Scotch 
preacher  having  again  launched  into  the  lore 
of  the  chopper,  took  it  without  at  first  per 
ceiving  anything  strange.  Five  minutes  after 
we  had  closed  the  door  upon  him  he  suddenly 
returned  holding  up  the  package. 

"This  is  an  uncommonly  heavy  package," 
he  remarked;  "did  I  say  table-spoons?" 

"  Go  on ! "  commanded  Harriet ;  "  your  wife 
will  understand." 

"All  right  —  good-bye  again,"  and  his 
sturdy  figure  soon  disappeared  in  the  dark. 

"The  impractical  man!"  exclaimed  Har 
riet.  "  People  impose  on  him." 

"What  was  in  that  package,  Harriet?" 

"  Oh,  I  put  in  a  few  jars  of  jelly  and  a  cake 
of  honey." 

After  a  moment  Harriet  looked  up  from 
her  work. 

"Do  you  known  the  greatest  sorrow  of  the 
Scotch  preacher  and  his  wife?" 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked. 


72  ADVENTURES  IN 

"They  have  no  chick  nor  child  of  their 
own,"  said  Harriet. 

It  is  prodigious,  the  amount  of  work  re 
quired  to  make  a  good  axe-helve  —  I  mean 
to  make  it  according  to  one's  standard.  I 
had  times  of  humorous  discouragement  and 
times  of  high  elation  when  it  seemed  to  me  I 
could  not  work  fast  enough.  Weeks  passed 
when  I  did  not  touch  the  helve  but  left  it 
standing  quietly  in  the  corner.  Once  or 
twice  I  took  it  out  and  walked  about  with  it 
as  a  sort  of  cane,  much  to  the  secret  amuse 
ment,  I  think,  of  Harriet.  At  times  Harriet 
takes  a  really  wicked  delight  in  her  superiority. 

Early  one  morning  in  March  the  dawn 
came  with  a  roaring  wind,  sleety  snow  drove 
down  over  the  hill,  the  house  creaked  and 
complained  in  every  clapboard.  A  blind 
of  one  of  the  upper  windows,  wrenched  loose 
from  its  fastenings,  was  driven  shut  with  such 
force  that  it  broke  a  window  pane.  When 
I  rushed  up  to  discover  the  meaning  of  the 
clatter  and  to  repair  the  damage,  I  found  the 
floor  covered  with  peculiar  long  fragments  of 
glass  —  the  pane  having  been  broken  inward 
from  the  centre. 


CONTENTMENT  73 

"Just  what  I  have  wanted,"  I  said  to 
myself. 

I  selected  a  few  of  the  best  pieces  and  so 
eager  was  I  to  try  them  that  I  got  out  my 
axe-helve  before  breakfast  and  sat  scratching 
away  when  Harriet  came  down. 

Nothing  equals  a  bit  of  broken  glass  for 
putting  on  the  final  perfect  touch  to  a  work 
of  art  like  an  axe-helve.  Nothing  will  so 
beautifully  and  delicately  trim  out  the  curves 
of  the  throat  or  give  a  smoother  turn  to  the 
waist.  So  with  care  and  an  indescribable 
affection,  I  added  the  final  touches,  trimming 
the  helve  until  it  exactly  fitted  my  hand. 
Often  and  often  I  tried  it  in  pantomime, 
swinging  nobly  in  the  centre  of  the  sitting- 
room  (avoiding  the  lamp),  attentive  to  the 
feel  of  my  hand  as  it  ran  along  the  helve.  I 
rubbed  it  down  with  fine  sandpaper  until  it 
fairly  shone  with  whiteness.  Then  I  bor 
rowed  a  red  flannel  cloth  of  Harriet  and  hav 
ing  added  a  few  drops  —  not  too  much  —  of 
boiled  oil,  I  rubbed  the  helve  for  all  I  was 
worth.  This  I  continued  for  upward  of  an 
hour.  At  that  time  the  axe-helve  had  taken 
on  a  yellowish  shade,  very  clear  and  beautiful. 

I  do  not  think  I  could  have  been  prouder 


74  ADVENTURES  IN 

if  I  had  carved  a  statue  or  built  a  parthenon. 
I  was  consumed  with  vanity;  but  I  set  the 
new  helve  in  the  corner  with  the  appearance 
of  utter  unconcern. 

"There,"  I  remarked,  "it  's  finished." 

I  watched  Harriet  out  of  the  corner  of  my 
eye:  she  made  as  if  to  speak  and  then  held 
silent. 

That  evening  friend  Horace  came  in.  I 
was  glad  to  see  him.  Horace  is  or  was  a 
famous  chopper.  I  placed  him  at  the  fire 
place  where  his  eye,  sooner  or  later,  must  fall 
upon  my  axe-helve.  Oh,  I  worked  out  my 
designs!  Presently  he  saw  the  helve,  picked 
it  up  at  once  and  turned  it  over  in  his  hands. 
I  had  a  suffocating,  not  unhumorous,  sense 
of  self -consciousness.  I  know  how  a  poet 
must  feel  at  hearing  his  first  poem  read  aloud 
by  some  other  person  who  does  not  know  its 
authorship.  I  suffer  and  thrill  with  the 
novelist  who  sees  a  stranger  purchase  his 
book  in  a  book-shop.  I  felt  as  though  I 
stood  that  moment  before  the  Great  Judge. 

Horace  "hefted"  it  and  balanced  it,  and 
squinted  along  it ;  he  rubbed  it  with  his  thumb, 
he  rested  one  end  of  it  on  the  floor  and  sprung 
it  roughly. 


CONTENTMENT  75 

"David,"  he  said  severely,  "where  did 
•you  git  this?" 

Once  when  I  was  a  boy  I  came  home  with 
my  hair  wet.  My  father  asked: 

"David,  have  you  been  swimming?" 

I  had  exactly  the  same  feeling  when  Horace 
asked  his  question.  Now  T  am,  generally 
speaking,  a  truthful  man.  I  have  written 
a  good  doal  about  the  immorality,  the  un 
wisdom,  the  short-sightedness,  the  sinful  waste 
fulness  of  a  lie.  But  at  that  moment,  if 
Harriet  had  not  been  present  —  and  that 
illustrates  one  of  the  purposes  of  society,  to 
bolster  up  a  man's  morals  —  I  should  have 
evolved  as  large  and  perfect  a  prevarication 
as  it  lay  within  me  to  do  —  cheerfully.  But 
I  felt  Harriet's  moral  eye  upon  me:  I  was  a 
coward  as  well  as  a  sinner.  I  faltered  so  long 
that  Horace  finally  looked  around  at  me. 

Horace  has  no  poetry  in  his  soul,  neither 
does  he  understand  the  philosophy  of  im 
perfection  nor  the  art  of  irregularity. 

It  is  a  tender  shoot,  easily  blasted  by  cold 
winds,  the  creative  instinct:  but  persistent. 
It  has  many  adventitious  buds.  A  late  frost 


76  ADVENTURES  IN 

destroying  the  freshness  of  its  early  verdure, 
may  be  the  means  of  a  richer  growth  in  later 
and  more  favourable  days. 

For  a  week  I  left  my  helve  standing  there 
in  the  corner.  I  did  not  even  look  at  it.  I 
was  slain.  I  even  thought  of  getting  up  in 
the  night  and  putting  the  helve  on  the  coals 
—  secretly.  Then,  suddenly,  one  morning, 
I  took  it  up  not  at  all  tenderly,  indeed  with 
a  humorous  appreciation  of  my  own  absurd 
ities,  and  carried  it  out  into  the  yard.  An 
axe-helve  is  not  a  mere  ornament  but  a  thing 
of  sober  purpose.  The  test,  after  all,  of  axe- 
helves  is  not  sublime  perfection,  but  service. 
We  may  easily  find  flaws  in  the  verse  of  the 
master  —  how  far  the  rhythm  fails  of  the 
final  perfect  music,  how  often  uncertain  the 
rhyme  —  but  it  bears  within  it,  hidden  yet 
evident,  that  certain  incalculable  fire  which 
kindles  and  will  continue  to  kindle  the  souls 
of  men.  The  final  test  is  not  the  perfection 
of  precedent,  not  regularity,  but  life,  spirit. 

It  was  one  of  those  perfect,  sunny,  calm 
mornings  that  sometimes  come  in  early 
April:  the  zest  of  winter  yet  in  the  air,  but  a 
promise  of  summer. 


CONTENTMENT  77 

I  built  a  fire  of  oak  chips  in  the  middle  of 
the  yard,  between  two  flat  stones.  I  brought 
out  my  old  axe,  and  when  the  fire  had  burned 
down  somewhat,  leaving  a  foundation  of  hot 
coals,  I  thrust  the  eye  of  the  axe  into  the  fire. 
The  blade  rested  on  one  of  the  flat  stones,  and 
I  kept  it  covered  with  wet  rags  in  order  that 
it  might  not  heat  sufficiently  to  destroy  the 
temper  of  the  steel.  Harriet's  old  gray  hen, 
a  garrulous  fowl,  came  and  stood  on  one  leg 
and  looked  at  me  first  with  one  eye  and  then 
with  the  other.  She  asked  innumerable  im 
pertinent  questions  and  was  generally  dis 
agreeable. 

"I  am  sorry,  madam,"  I  said  finally,  "but 
I  have  grown  adamant  to  criticism.  I  have 
done  my  work  as  well  as  it  lies  in  me  to  do  it. 
It  is  the  part  of  sanity  to  throw  it  aside  with 
out  compunction.  A  work  must  prove  itself. 
Shoo!" 

I  said  this  with  such  conclusiveness  and 
vigour  that  the  critical  old  hen  departed 
hastily  with  ruffled  feathers. 

So  I  sat  there  in  the  glorious  perfection  of 
the  forenoon,  the  great  day  open  around  me, 
a  few  small  clouds  abroad  in  the  highest  sky, 
and  all  the  earth  radiant  with  sunshine.  The 


78  ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT 

last  snow  of  winter  was  gone,  the  sap  ran  in 
the  trees,  the  cows  fed  further  afield. 

When  the  eye  of  the  axe  was  sufficiently 
expanded  by  the  heat  I  drew  it  quickly  from 
the  fire  and  drove  home  the  helve  which  I 
had  already  whittled  down  to  the  exact  size. 
I  had  a  hickory  wedge  prepared,  and  it  was 
the  work  of  ten  seconds  to  drive  it  into  the 
cleft  at  the  lower  end  of  the  helve  until  the 
eye  of  the  axe  was  completely  and  perfectly 
filled.  Upon  cooling  the  steel  shrunk  upon 
the  wood,  clasping  it  with  such  firmness  that 
nothing  short  of  fire  could  ever  dislodge  it. 
Then,  carefully,  with  knife  and  sandpaper  I 
polished  off  the  wood  around  the  steel  of  the 
axe  until  I  had  made  as  good  a  job  of  it  as 
lay  within  my  power. 

So  I  carried  the  axe  to  my  log-pile.  I 
swung  it  above  my  head  and  the  feel  of  it  was 
good  in  my  hands.  The  blade  struck  deep 
into  the  oak  wood.  And  I  said  to  myself 
with  satisfaction: 

"It  serves  the  purpose." 


VI 


THE  MARSH  DITCH 

"If  the  day  and  the  night  are  such  that  you  greet  them 
with  joy  and  life  emits  a  fragrance  like  flowers  and  sweet- 
smelling  herbs  —  is  more  elastic,  more  starry,  more  im 
mortal  —  that  is  your  Success." 

IN  ALL  the  days  of  my  life  I  have  never 
been  so  well  content  as  I  am  this  spring. 
Last  summer  I  thought  I  was  happy,  the  fall 
gave  me  a  finality  of  satisfaction,  the  winter 
imparted  perspective,  but  spring  conveys  a 
wholly  new  sense  of  life,  a  quickening  the  like 

79 


8o  ADVENTURES  IN 

of  which  I  never  before  experienced.  It 
seems  to  me  that  everything  in  the  world  is 
more  interesting,  more  vital,  more  significant. 
I  feel  like  "waving  aside  all  roofs,"  in  the  way 
of  Le  Sage's  Asmodeus. 

I  even  cease  to  fear  Mrs.  Horace,  who  is 
quite  the  most  formidable  person  in  this 
neighbourhood.  She  is  so  avaricious  in  the 
saving  of  souls  —  and  so  covetous  of  mine, 
which  I  wish  especially  to  retain.  When  I 
see  her  coming  across  the  hill  I  feel  like  run 
ning  and  hiding,  and  if  I  were  as  bold  as  a 
boy,  I  should  do  it,  but  being  a  grown-up 
coward  I  remain  and  dissemble. 

She  came  over  this  morning.  When  I 
beheld  her  afar  off,  I  drew  a  long  breath: 
"One  thousand,"  I  quoted  to  myself,  "shall 
flee  at  the  rebuke  of  one." 

In  calmness  I  waited.  She  came  with 
colours  flying  and  hurled  her  biblical  lance. 
When  I  withstood  the  shock  with  unexpected 
jauntiness,  for  I  usually  fall  dead  at  once, 
she  looked  at  me  with  severity  and  said: 

"Mr.  Grayson,  you  are  a  materialist." 

"You  have  shot  me  with  a  name,"  I  replied. 
"I  am  unhurt." 

It    would   be   impossible   to   slay   me   on 


CONTENTMENT  81 

a  day  like  this.     On  a  day  like  this  I   am 
immortal. 

It  comes  to  me  as  the  wonder  of  wonders, 
these  spring  days,  how  surely  everything, 
spiritual  as  well  as  material,  proceeds  out  of 
the  earth.  I  have  times  of  sheer  Paganism 
when  I  could  bow  and  touch  my  face  to  the 
warm  bare  soil.  We  are  so  often  ashamed  of 
the  Earth  —  the  soil  of  it,  the  sweat  of  it,  the 
good  common  coarseness  of  it.  To  us  in  our 
fine  raiment  and  soft  manners,  it  seems  in 
delicate.  Instead  of  seeking  that  association 
with  the  earth  which  is  the  renewal  of  life, 
we  devise  ourselves  distant  palaces  and  seek 
strange  pleasures.  How  often  and  sadly  we 
repeat  the  life  story  of  the  yellow  dodder  of 
the  moist  lanes  of  my  lower  farm.  It  springs 
up  fresh  and  clean  from  the  earth  itself,  and 
spreads  its  clinging  viny  stems  over  the  hospita 
ble  wild  balsam  and  golden  rod.  In  a  week's 
time,  having  reached  the  warm  sunshine  of 
the  upper  air,  it  forgets  its  humble  beginnings. 
Its  roots  wither  swiftly  and  die  out,  but  the 
sickly  yellow  stems  continue  to  flourish  and 
spread,  drawing  their  nourishment  not  from 
the  soil  itself,  but  by  strangling  and  sucking 
the  life  juices  of  the  hosts  on  which  it  feeds. 


82 

I  have  seen  whole  byways  covered  thus 
with  yellow  dodder  —  rootless,  leafless,  par 
asitic  —  reaching  up  to  the  sunlight,  quite 
cutting  off  and  smothering  the  plants  which 
gave  it  life.  A  week  or  two  it  flourishes  and 
then  most  of  it  perishes  miserably.  So  many 
of  us  come  to  be  like  that:  so  much  of  OUT 
civilization  is  like  that.  Men  and  women 
there  are  —  the  pity  of  it  —  who,  eating 
plentifully,  have  never  themselves  taken  a 
mouthful  from  the  earth.  They  have  never 
known  a  moment's  real  life  of  their  own. 
Lying  up  to  the  sun  in  warmth  and  comfort 
-  but  leafless  —  they  do  not  think  of  the 
hosts  under  them,  smothered,  strangled, 
starved.  They  take  nothing  at  first  hand. 
They  experience  described  emotion,  and 
think  prepared  thoughts.  They  live  not  in 
life,  but  in  printed  reports  of  life.  They 
gather  the  odour  of  odours,  not  the  odour 
itself:  they  do  not  hear,  they  overhear.  A 
poor,  sad,  second-rate  existence! 

Bring  out  your  social  remedies!  They  will 
fail,  they  will  fail,  every  one,  until  each  man 
has  his  feet  somewhere  upon  the  soil! 

My  wild  plum  trees  grow  in  the  coarse 
earth,  among  excrement  it  ious  mould,  a  phys- 


CONTENTMENT  83 

ical  life  which  finally  blossoms  and  exhales 
its  perfect  odour:  which  ultimately  bears  the 
seed  of  its  immortality. 

Human  happiness  is  the  true  odour  of 
growth,  the  sweet  exhalation  of  work:  and 
the  seed  of  human  immortality  is  borne  se 
cretly  within  the  coarse  and  mortal  husk. 
So  many  of  us  crave  the  odour  without  cul 
tivating  the  earthly  growth  from  which  it 
proceeds:  so  many,  wasting  mortality,  expect 
immortality! 

-"Why,"    asks    Charles    Baxter,    "do 
you  always  put  the  end  of  your  stories  first?" 

"You  may  be  thankful,"  I  replied,  "that 
I  do  not  make  my  remarks  all  endings.  End 
ings  are  so  much  more  interesting  than  be 
ginnings." 

Without  looking  up  from  the  buggy  he 
was  mending,  Charles  Baxter  intimated  that 
my  way  had  at  least  one  advantage:  one 
always  knew,  he  said,  that  I  really  had  an 
end  in  view  —  and  hope  deferred,  he  said 

How  surely,  soundly,  deeply,  the  phys 
ical  underlies  the  spiritual.  This  morning  I 
was  up  and  out  at  half -past  four,  as  perfect 
a  morning  as  I  ever  saw:  mists  yet  huddled 
in  the  low  spots,  the  sun  coming  up  over  the 


84  ADVENTURES  IN 

hill,  and  all  the  earth  fresh  with  moisture; 
sweet  with  good  odours,  and  musical  with 
early  bird -notes. 

It  is  the  time  of  the  spring  just  after  the 
last  seeding  and  before  the  early  haying:  a 
catch-breath  in  the  farmer's  year.  I  have 
been  utilising  it  in  digging  a  drainage  ditch  at 
the  lower  end  of  my  farm.  A  spot  of  marsh 
grass  and  blue  flags  occupies  nearly  half  an 
acre  of  good  land  and  I  have  been  planning 
ever  since  I  bought  the  place  to  open  a  drain 
from  its  lower  edge  to  the  creek,  supplement 
ing  it  in  the  field  above,  if  necessary,  with 
submerged  tiling.  I  surveyed  it  carefully 
several  weeks  ago  and  drew  plans  and  con 
tours  of  the  work  as  though  it  were  an  inter- 
oceanic  canal.  I  find  it  a  real  delight  to 
work  out  in  the  earth  itself  the  details  of 
the  drawing. 

This  morning,  after  hastening  with  the 
chores,  I  took  my  bag  and  my  spade  on  my 
shoulder  and  set  off  (in  rubber  boots)  for  the 
ditch.  My  way  lay  along  the  margin  of  my 
cornfield  in  the  deep  grass.  On  my  right  as 
I  walked  was  the  old  rail  fence  full  of  thrifty 
young  hickory  and  cherry  trees  with  here  and 
there  a  clump  of  blackberry  bushes.  The 


CONTENTMENT  85 

trees  beyond  the  fence  cut  off  the  sunrise  so 
that  I  walked  in  the  cool  broad  shadows.  On 
my  left  stretched  the  cornfield  of  my  plant 
ing,  the  young  corn  well  up,  very  attractive 
and  hopeful,  my  really  frightful  scarecrow 
standing  guard  on  the  knoll,  a  wisp  of 
straw  sticking  up  through  a  hole  in  his  hat 
and  his  crooked  thumbs  turned  down  — 
"No  mercy." 

"Surely  no  corn  ever  before  grew  like  this," 
I  said  to  myself.  "To-morrow  I  must  begin 
cultivating  again." 

So  I  looked  up  and  about  me — not  to 
miss  anything  of  the  morning — and  I  drew 
in  a  good  big  breath  and  I  thought  the  world 
had  never  been  so  open  to  my  senses. 

I  wonder  why  it  is  that  the  sense  of  smell 
is  so  commonly  under-regarded.  To  me  it 
is  the  source  of  some  of  my  greatest  pleasures. 
No  one  of  the  senses  is  more  often  allied  with 
robustity  of  physical  health.  A  man  who 
smells  acutely  may  be  set  down  as  enjoying 
that  which  is  normal,  plain,  wholesome.  He 
does  not  require  seasoning :  the  ordinary  earth 
is  good  enough  for  him.  He  is  likely  to  be 
sane — which  means  sound,  healthy  —  in  his 
outlook  upon  life. 


86  ADVENTURES  IN 

Of  all  hours  of  the  day  there  is  none  like  the 
early  morning  for  downright  good  odours  — • 
the  morning  before  eating.  Fresh  from  sleep 
and  unclogged  with  food  a  man's  senses  cut 
like  knives.  The  whole  world  comes  in 
upon  him.  A  still  morning  is  best,  for  the 
mists  and  the  moisture  seem  to  retain  the 
odours  which  they  have  distilled  through  the 
night.  Upon  a  breezy  morning  one  is  likely 
to  get  a  single  predominant  odour  as  of  clover 
when  the  wind  blows  across  a  hay  field  or  of 
apple  blossoms  when  the  wind  comes  through, 
the  orchard,  but  upon  a  perfectly  still  morn 
ing,  it  is  wonderful  how  the  odours  arrange 
themselves  in  upright  strata,  so  that  one 
walking  passes  through  them  as  from  room 
to  room  in  a  marvellous  temple  of  fragrance. 
(I  should  have  said,  I  think,  if  I  had  not  been 
on  my  way  to  dig  a  ditch,  that  it  was  like  turn 
ing  the  leaves  of  some  delicate  volume  of 
lyrics!) 

So  it  was  this  morning.  As  I  walked  along 
the  margin  of  my  field  I  was  conscious,  at 
first,  coming  within  the  shadows  of  the  wood, 
of  the  cool,  heavy  aroma  which  one  associates 
with  the  night:  as  of  moist  woods  and  earth 
mould.  The  penetrating  scent  of  the  night 


CONTENTMENT  87 

remains  long  after  the  sights  and  sounds  of  it 
have  disappeared.  In  sunny  spots  I  had  the 
fragrance  of  the  open  cornfield,  the  aromatic 
breath  of  the  brown  earth,  giving  curiously 
the  sense  of  fecundity  —  a  warm,  generous 
odour  of  daylight  and  sunshine.  Down  the 
field,  toward  the  corner,  cutting  in  sharply, 
as  though  a  door  opened  (or  a  page  turned  to 
another  lyric),  came  the  cloying,  sweet  fra 
grance  of  wild  crab-apple  blossoms,  almost 
tropical  in  their  richness,  and  below  that,  as 
I  came  to  my  work,  the  thin  acrid  smell  of  the 
marsh,  the  place  of  the  rushes  and  the  flags 
and  the  frogs. 

How  few  of  us  really  use  our  senses!  I 
mean  give  ourselves  fully  at  any  time  to 
the  occupation  of  the  senses.  We  do  not 
expect  to  understand  a  treatise  on  Econo 
mics  without  applying  our  minds  to  it,  nor 
can  we  really  smell  or  hear  or  see  or 
feel  without  every  faculty  alert.  Through 
sheer  indolence  we  miss  half  the  joy  of  the 
world ! 

Often  as  I  work  I  stop  to  see:  really  see: 
see  everything,  or  to  listen,  and  it  is  the  won 
der  of  wonders,  how  much  there  is  in  this 
old  world  which  we  never  dreamed  of.  how 


<?8  ADVENTURES  IN 

many  beautiful,  curious,  interesting  sights 
and  sounds  there  are  which  ordinarily  make 
no  impression  upon  our  clogged,  overfed  and 
preoccupied  minds.  I  have  also  had  the 
feeling  —  it  may  be  unscientific  but  it  is 
comforting  —  that  any  man  might  see  like 
an  Indian  or  smell  like  a  hound  if  he 
gave  to  the  senses  the  brains  which  the 
Indian  and  the  hound  apply  to  them.  And 
I  'm  pretty  sure  about  the  Indian!  It  is 
marvellous  what  a  man  can  do  when  he  puts 
his  entire  mind  upon  one  faculty  and  bears 
down  hard. 

So  I  walked  this  morning,  not  hearing 
nor  seeing,  but  smelling.  Without  desiring 
to  stir  up  strife  among  the  peaceful  senses, 
there  is  this  further  marvel  of  the  sense  of 
smell.  No  other  possesses  such  an  after-call. 
Sight  preserves  pictures:  the  complete  view 
of  the  aspect  of  objects,  but  it  is  photographic 
and  external.  Hearing  deals  in  echoes,  but 
the  sense  of  smell,  while  saving  no  vision  of  a 
place  or  a  person,  will  re-create  in  a  way  almost 
miraculous  the  inner  emotion  of  a  particular 
time  or  place.  I  know  of  nothing  that  will 
so  "  create  an  appetite  under  the  ribs  of  death. ' ' 

Only  a  short  time  ago  I  passed  an  open 


CONTENTMENT  89 

doorway  in  the  town.  I  was  busy  with  er 
rands,  my  mind  fully  engaged,  but  suddenly  I 
caught  an  odour  from  somewhere  within  the 
building  I  was  passing.  I  stopped!  It  was 
as  if  in  that  moment  I  lost  twenty  years  of 
my  life:  I  was  a  boy  again,  living  and  feeling 
a  particular  instant  at  the  time  of  my  father  s 
death.  Every  emotion  of  that  occasion,  not 
recalled  in  years,  returned  to  me  sharply  and 
clearly  as  though  I  experienced  it  for  the  first 
time.  It  was  a  peculiar  emotion:  the  first 
time  I  had  ever  felt  the  oppression  of  space  — • 
can  I  describe  it  ?  —  the  utter  bigness  of  the 
world  and  the  aloofness  of  myself,  a  little  boy, 
within  it  —  now  that  my  father  was  gone.  It 
was  not  at  that  moment  sorrow,  nor  remorse, 
nor  love :  it  was  an  inexpressible  cold  terror  — 
that  anywhere  I  might  go  in  the  world,  I 
should  still  be  alone ! 

And  there  I  stood,  a  man  grown,  shaking 
in  the  sunshine  with  that  old  boyish  emotion 
brought  back  to  me  by  an  odour!  Often 
and  often  have  I  known  this  strange  re 
kindling  of  dead  fires.  And  I  have  thought 
how,  if  our  senses  were  really  perfect,  we 
might  lose  nothing,  out  of  our  lives:  neither 
sights,  nor  sounds,  nor  emotions:  a  sort  oi 


9o  ADVENTURES  IN 

mortal  immortality.  Was  not  Shakespeare 
great  because  he  lost  less  of  the  savings  of 
his  senses  than  other  men?  What  a  wonder 
ful  seer,  hearer,  smeller,  taster,  feeler,  he 
must  have  been  —  and  how,  all  the  time,  his 
mind  must  have  played  upon  the  gatherings 
of  his  senses!  All  scenes,  all  men,  the  very 
turn  of  a  head,  the  exact  sound  of  a  voice, 
the  taste  of  food,  .the  feel  of  the  world  —  all 
the  emotions  of  his  life  must  he  have  had 
there  before  him  as  he  wrote,  his  great  mind 
playing  upon  them,  reconstructing,  re-creat 
ing  and  putting  them  down  hot  upon  his 
pages.  There  is  nothing  strange  about  great 
men;  they  are  like  us,  only  deeper,  higher, 
broader:  they  think  as  we  do,  but  with  more 
intensity:  they  suffer  as  we  do,  more  keenly: 
they  love  as  we  do,  more  tenderly. 

I  may  be  over-glorifying  the  sense  of  smell, 
but  it  is  only  because  I  walked  this  morning 
in  a  world  of  odours.  The  greatest  of  the 
senses,  of  course,  is  not  smell  or  hearing,  but 
sight.  What  would  not  any  man  exchange 
for  that :  for  the  faces  one  loves,  for  the  scenes 
one  holds  most  dear,  for  all  that  is  beautiful 
and  changeable  and  beyond  description?  The 
Scotch  Preacher  says  that  the  saddest  lines 


CONTENTMENT  91 

m  all  literature  are  those  of  Milton,  writing  of 
his  blindness; 

"Seasons  return;  but  not  to  me  returns 
Day,  or  the  sweet  approach  of  even  or  morn, 
Or  sight  of  vernal  bloom  or  Summer's  rose, 
Or  flocks,  or  herds,  or  human  face  divine." 

1   have  wandered   a  long  way  from 

ditch-digging,  but  not  wholly  without  in 
tention.  Sooner  or  later  I  try  to  get  back 
into  the  main  road.  I  throw  down  my  spade 
in  the  wet  trampled  grass  at  the  edge  of 
the  ditch.  I  take  off  my  coat  and  hang  it 
over  a  limb  of  the  little  hawthorn  tree.  I 
put  my  bag  near  it.  I  roll  up  the  sleeves 
of  my  flannel  shirt:  I  give  my  hat  a  twirl; 
I  'm  ready  for  work. 

The   senses   are  the   tools   by   which 

we  lay  hold  upon  the  world:  they  are  the 
implements  of  consciousness  and  growth. 
So  long  as  they  are  used  upon  the  good  earth 
-  used  to  wholesome  weariness  —  they  re 
main  healthy,  they  yield  enjoyment,  they 
nourish  growth ;  but  let  them  once  be  removed 
from  their  natural  employment  and  they  turn 
and  feed  upon  themse1ves,  they  seek  the 
stimulation  of  luxury,  they  wallow  in  their 


92  ADVENTURES  IN 

own  corruption,  and  finally,  worn  out,  perish 
from  off  the  earth  which  they  have  not 
appreciated.  Vice  is  ever  the  senses  gone 
astray. 

So  I  dug.  There  is  something  fine 

in  hard  physical  labour,  straight  ahead:  no 
brain  used,  just  muscles.  I  stood  ankle- 
deep  in  the  cool  water:  every  spadeful  came 
out  with  a  smack,  and  as  I  turned  it  over  at 
the  edge  of  the  ditch  small  turgid  rivulets 
coursed  back  again.  I  did  not  think  of 
anything  in  particular.  I  dug.  A  peculiar 
joy  attends  the  very  pull  of  the  muscles.  I 
drove  the  spade  home  with  one  foot,  then  I 
bent  and  lifted  and  turned  with  a  sort  of 
physical  satisfaction  difficult  to  describe.  At 
first  I  had  the  cool  of  the  morning,  but  by 
seven  o'clock  the  day  was  hot  enough!  I 
opened  the  breast  of  my  shirt,  gave  my  sleeves 
another  roll,  and  went  at  it  again  for  half  an 
hour,  until  I  dripped  with  perspiration. 

"I  will  knock  off,"  I  said,  so  I  used  my 
spade  as  a  ladder  and  climbed  out  of  the 
ditch.  Being  very  thirsty,  I  walked  down 
through  the  marshy  valley  to  the  clump  of 
alders  which  grows  along  the  creek.  I  fol 
lowed  a  cow-path  through  the  thicket  and 


CONTENTMENT  93 

came  to  the  creek  side,  where  I  knelt  on  a 
log  and  took  a  good  long  drink.  Then  I 
soused  my  head  in  the  cool  stream,  dashe4 
the  water  upon  my  arms  and  came  up  dripping 
and  gasping!  Oh,  but  it  was  fine! 

So  I  came  back  to  the  hawthorn  tree,  where 
I  sat  down  comfortably  and  stretched  my  legs. 
There  is  a  poem  in  stretched  legs  —  after  hard 
digging  —  but  I  can't  write  it,  though  I  can 
feel  it !  I  got  my  bag  and  took  out  a  half  loaf 
of  Harriet's  bread.  Breaking  off  big  crude 
pieces,  I  ate  it  there  in  the  shade.  How  rarely 
we  taste  the  real  taste  of  bread !  We  disguise 
it  with  butter,  we  toast  it,  we  eat  it  with  milk 
or  fruit.  We  even  soak  it  with  gravy  (here 
in  the  country  where  we  are  n't  at  all  polite 
—  but  very  comfortable),  so  that  we  never 
get  the  downright  delicious  taste  of  the  bread 
itself.  I  was  hungry  this  morning  and  I  ate 
my  half  loaf  to  the  last  crumb  —  and  wanted 
more.  Then  I  lay  down  for  a  moment  in 
the  shade  and  looked  up  into  the  sky  through 
the  thin  outer  branches  of  the  hawthorn.  A 
turkey  buzzard  was  lazily  circling  cloud-high 
above  me:  a  frog  boomed  intermittently  from 
the  little  marsh,  and  there  were  bees  at  work 
in  the  blossoms. 


94  ADVENTURES  IN 

1  had  another  drink  at  the  creek  and 

went  back  somewhat  reluctantly,  I  confess, 
to  the  work.  It  was  hot,  and  the  first  joy  of 
effort  had  worn  off.  But  the  ditch  was  to  be 
dug  and  I  went  at  it  again.  One  becomes 
a  sort  of  machine  —  unthinking,  mechanical : 
and  yet  intense  physical  work,  though  mak 
ing  no  immediate  impression  on  the  mind, 
often  lingers  in  the  consciousness.  I  find 
that  sometimes  I  can  remember  and  enjoy 
for  long  afterward  every  separate  step  in  a 
task. 

It  is  curious,  hard  physical  labour!  One 
actually  stops  thinking.  I  often  work  long 
without  any  thought  whatever,  so  far  as  I 
know,  save  that  connected  with  the  monot 
onous  repetition  of  the  labour  itself  —  down 
with  the  spade,  out  with  it,  up  with  it, 
over  with  it  —  and  repeat.  And  yet  some 
times  —  mostly  in  the  forenoon  when  I  am 
not  at  all  tired  —  I  will  suddenly  have  a 
sense  as  of  the  world  opening  around  me  — 
a  sense  of  its  beauty  and  its  meanings  — 
giving  me  a  peculiar  deep  happiness,  that  is 
near  complete  content 

Happiness,  I  have  discovered,  is  nearly 
always  a  rebound  from  hard  work.  It  is 


CONTENTMENT  95 

one  of  the  follies  of  men  to  imagine  that 
they  can  enjoy  mere  thought,  or  emotion, 
or  sentiment!  As  well  try  to  eat  beauty! 
For  happiness  must  be  tricked!  She  loves 
to  see  men  at  work.  She  loves  sweat,  weari 
ness,  self-sacrifice.  She  will  be  found  not  in 
palaces  but  lurking  in  cornfields  and  factories 
and  hovering  over  littered  desks:,  she  crowns 
the  unconscious  head  of  the  busy  child.  If 
you  look  up  suddenly  from  hard  work  you  will 
see  her,  but  if  you  look  too  long  she  fades 
sorrowfully  away. 

-  Down  toward  the  town  there  is  a 
little  factory  for  barrel  hoops  and  staves. 
It  has  one  of  the  most  musical  whistles  I 
ever  heard  in  my  life.  It  toots  at  exactly 
twelve  o'clock:  blessed  sound !  The  last  half- 
hour  at  ditch-digging  is  a  hard,  slow  pull. 
I  'm  warm  and  tired,  but  I  stick  down  to  it 
and  wait  with  straining  ear  for  the  music. 
At  the  very  first  note  of  that  whistle  I 
drop  my  spade.  I  will  even  empty  out  a 
load  of  dirt  half  way  up  rather  than  expend 
another  ounce  of  energy;  and  I  spring  out 
of  the  ditch  and  start  for  home  with  a 
single  desire  in  my  heart  —  or  possibly 
lower  down.  And  Harriet,  standing  in  the 


doorway,  seems  to  me  a    sort   of  angel  —  a 
culinary  angel! 

Talk  of  joy:  there  may  be  things  better 
than  beef  stew  and  baked  potatoes  and 
home-made  bread  —  there  may  be 


'*/,. 


VII 
AN  ARGUMENT  WITH  A  MILLIONNAIRE 

"Let  the  mighty  and  great 
Roll  in  splendour  and  state, 
I  envy  them  not,  I  declare  it. 
I  eat  my  own  lamb, 
My  own  chicken  and  ham, 
I  shear  my  own  sheep  and  wear  it. 

I  have  lawns,  I  have  bowers, 

I  have  fruits,  I  have  flowers. 

The  lark  is  my  morning  charmer; 

So  you  jolly  dogs  now, 

Here's  God  bless  the  plow  — 

Long  life  and  content  to  the  farmer." 

—  Rhyme  on  an  old  pitcher  of  English  pottery. 

I    HAVE    been    hearing    of    John    Stark 
weather  ever  since  I   came  here.     He 
is  a  most  important  personage  in  this  com 
munity.     He  is  rich.     Horace  especially  loves 

97 


98  ADVENTURES  IN 

to  talk  about  him.  Give  Horace  half  a  chance, 
whether  the  subject  be  pigs  or  churches,  and 
he  will  break  in  somewhere  with  the  remark: 
"As  I  was  saying  to  Mr.  Starkweather  — 
or,  "Mr.  Starkweather  says  to  me-  How 
we  love  to  shine  by  reflected  glory!  Even 
Harriet  has  not  gone  unscathed ;  she,  too,  has 
been  affected  by  the  bacillus  of  admiration. 
She  has  wanted  to  know  several  times  if  I 
saw  John  Starkweather  drive  by:  "the  finest 
span  of  horses  in  this  country,"  she  says,  and 
"did  you  see  his  daughter?"  Much  other 
information  concerning  the  Starkweather 
household,  culinary  and  otherwise,  is  current 
among  our  hills.  We  know  accurately  the 
number  of  Mr.  Starkweather's  bedrooms, 
we  can  tell  how  much  coal  he  uses  in  win 
ter  and  how  many  tons  of  ice  in  summer, 
and  upon  such  important  premises  we  argue 
his  riches. 

Several  times  I  have  passed  John  Stark 
weather's  home.  It  lies  between  my  farm 
and  the  town,  though  not  on  the  direct  road, 
and  it  is  really  beautiful  with  the  groomed 
and  guided  beauty  possible  to  wealth.  A 
stately  old  house  with  a  huge  end  chimney 
of  red  brick  stands  with  dignity  well  back 


CONTENTMENT  99 

from  the  road;  round  about  lie  pleasant 
lawns  that  once  were  cornfields:  and  there 
are  drives  and  walks  and  exotic  shrubs.  At 
first,  loving  my  own  hills  so  well,  I  was  puzzled 
to  understand  why  I  should  also  enjoy  Stark 
weather's  groomed  surroundings.  But  it 
came  to  me  that  after  all,  much  as  we  may 
love  wildness,  we  are  not  wild,  nor  our  works. 
What  more  artificial  than  a  house,  or  a  barn, 
or  a  fence  ?  And  the  greater  and  more  formal 
the  house,  the  more  formal  indeed  must  be 
the  nearer  natural  environments.  Perhaps 
the  hand  of  man  might  well  have  been  less 
evident  in  developing  the  surroundings  of  the 
Starkweather  home  —  for  art,  dealing  with 
nature,  is  so  often  too  accomplished! 

But  I  enjoy  the  Starkweather  place  and 
as  I  look  in  from  the  road,  I  sometimes  think 
to  myself  with  satisfaction:  ''Here  is  this 
rich  man  who  has  paid  his  thousands  to 
make  the  beauty  which  I  pass  and  take  for 
nothing  —  and  having  taken,  leave  as  much 
behind."  And  I  wonder  sometimes  whether 
he,  inside  his  fences,  gets  more  joy  of  it  than 
I,  who  walk  the  roads  outside.  Anyway ,  I 
am  grateful  to  him  for  using  his  riches  so 
much  to  my  advantage. 


ioo  ADVENTURES  IN 

On  fine  mornings  John  Starkweather  some 
times  comes  out  in  his  slippers,  bare-headed, 
his  white  vest  gleaming  in  the  sunshine,  and 
walks  slowly  around  his  garden.  Charles 
Baxter  says  that  on  these  occasions  he  is 
asking  his  gardener  the  names  of  the  vege 
tables.  However  that  may  be,  he  has  seemed 
to  our  community  the  very  incarnation  of 
contentment  and  prosperity  —  his  position 
the  acme  of  desirability. 

What  was  my  astonishment,  then,  the 
other  morning  to  see  John  Starkweather 
coming  down  the  pasture  lane  through  my 
farm.  I  knew  him  afar  off.  though  I  had 
never  met  him.  May  I  express  the  inex 
pressible  when  I  say  he  had  a  rich  look;  he 
walked  rich,  there  was  richness  in  the  con 
fident  crook  of  his  elbow,  and  in  the  positive 
twitch  of  the  stick  he  carried:  a  man  accus 
tomed  to  having  doors  opened  before  he 
knocked.  I  stood  there  a  moment  and 
looked  up  the  hill  at  him,  and  I  felt  that 
profound  curiosity  which  every  one  of  us 
feels  every  day  of  his  life  to  know  something 
of  the  inner  impulses  which  stir  his  nearest 
neighbour.  I  should  have  liked  to  know 
John  Starkweather;  but  I  thought  to  myself 


CONTENTMENT  101 

as  I  have  thought  so  many  times  how  surely 
one  comes  finally  to  imitate  his  surroundings. 
A  farmer  grows  to  be  a  part  of  his  farm;  the 
sawdust  on  his  coat  is  not  the  most  distinctive 
insignia  of  the  carpenter;  the  poet  writes  his 
truest  lines  upon  his  own  countenance.  Peo 
ple  passing  in  my  road  take  me  to  be  a  part 
of  this  natural  scene.  I  suppose  I  seem  to 
them  as  a  partridge  squatting  among  dry 
grass  and  leaves,  so  like  the  grass  and  leaves 
as  to  be  invisible.  We  all  come  to  be  marked 
upon  by  nature  and  dismissed  —  how  care 
lessly!  —  as  genera  or  species.  And  is  it  not 
the  primal  struggle  of  man  to  escape  classifi 
cation,  to  form  new  differentiations? 

Sometimes  —  I  confess  it  —  when  I  see 
one  passing  in  my  road,  I  feel  like  hailing 
him  and  saying: 

"Friend,  I  am  not  all  farmer.  I,  too, 
am  a  person;  I  am  different  and  curious. 
I  am  full  of  red  blood,  I  like  people,  all  sorts 
of  people;  if  you  are  not  interested  in  me,  at 
least  I  am  intensely  interested  in  you.  Come 
over  now  and  let 's  talk! " 

So  we  are  all  of  us  calling  and  calling  across 
the  incalculable  gulfs  which  separate  us  even 
from  our  nearest  friends! 


102  ADVENTURES  IN 

Once  or  twice  this  feeling  has  been  so 
real  to  me  that  I  've  been  near  to  the  point 
of  hailing  utter  strangers  —  only  to  be  in 
stantly  overcome  with  a  sense  of  the  hu 
morous  absurdity  of  such  an  enterprise.  So 
I  laugh  it  off  and  I  say  to  myself: 

"Steady  now:  the  man  is  going  to  town 
to  sell  a  pig;  he  is  coming  back  with  ten 
pounds  of  sugar,  five  of  salt  pork,  a  can 
of  coffee  and  some  new  blades  for  his  mow 
ing  machine.  He  hasn't  time  for  talk" 
—  and  so  I  come  down  with  a  bump  to  my 
digging,  or  hoeing,  or  chopping,  or  whatever 
it  is. 

Here  I  've  left  John  Starkweather  in 

my  pasture  while  I  remark  to  the  extent  of 
a  page  or  two  that  I  did  n't  expect  him  to 
see  me  when  he  went  by. 

I  assumed  that  he  was  out  for  a  walk,  per 
haps  to  enliven  a  worn  appetite  (do  you  know, 
confidentially,  I  've  had  some  pleasure  in 
times  past  in  reflecting  upon  the  jaded  appe 
tites  of  millionnaires!),  and  that  he  would 
pass  out  by  my  lane  to  the  country  road; 
but  instead  of  that,  what  should  he  do  but 
climb  the  yard  fence  and  walk  over  toward 
the  barn  where  I  was  at  work. 


CONTENTMENT  103 

Perhaps  I  was  not  consumed  with  ex 
citement:  here  was  fresh  adventure! 

"A  farmer,"  I  said  to  myself  with  ex 
ultation,  ''has  only  to  wait  long  enough  and 
all  the  world  comes  his  way." 

I  had  just  begun  to  grease  my  farm  wagon 
and  was  experiencing  some  difficulty  in  lifting 
and  steadying  the  heavy  rear  axle  while  I 
took  off  the  wheel.  I  kept  busily  at  work, 
pretending  (such  is  the  perversity  of  the 
human  mind)  that  I  did  not  see  Mr.  Stark 
weather.  He  stood  for  a  moment  watching 
me;  then  he  said: 

"Good  morning,  sir." 

I  looked  up  and  said: 

"Oh,  good  morning!" 

"Nice  little  farm  you  have  here." 

"It's  enough  for  me,"  I  replied.  I  did 
not  especially  like  the  "little."  One  is 
human. 

Then  I  had  an  absurd  inspiration:  he  stood 
there  so  trim  and  jaunty  and  prosperous.  So 
rich!  I  had  a  good  look  at  him.  He  was  dressed 
in  a  woollen  jacket  coat,  knee- trousers  and 
leggins;  on  his  head  he  wore  a  jaunty,  cocky 
little  Scotch  cap;  a  man,  I  should  judge,  about 
fifty  years  old,  well-fed  and  hearty  in  appear- 


io4  ADVENTURES  IN 

ance,  with  grayish  hair  and  a  good-humoured 
eye.  I  acted  on  my  inspiration: 

"You've  arrived,"  I  said,  "at  the  psy 
chological  moment." 

"How's  that?" 

"Take  hold  here  and  help  me  lift  this  axle 
and  steady  it.  I  'm  having  a  hard  time 
of  it." 

The  look  of  astonishment  in  his  coun 
tenance  was  beautiful  to  see. 

For  a  moment  failure  stared  me  in  the 
face.  His  expression  said  with  emphasis: 
"Perhaps  you  don't  know  who  I  am."  But 
I  looked  at  him  with  the  greatest  good  feel 
ing  and  my  expression  said,  or  I  meant  it 
to  say:  "To  be  sure  I  don't:  and  what  dif 
ference  does  it  make,  anyway!" 

"You  take  hold  there."  I  said,  without  wait 
ing  for  him  to  catch  his  breath,  "and  I  '11  get 
hold  here.  Together  we  can  easily  get  the 
wheel  off." 

Without  a  word  he  set  his  cane  against 
the  barn  and  bent  his  back,  up  came  the 
axle  and  I  propped  it  with  a  board. 

"Now,"  I  said,  "you  hang  on  there  and 
steady  it  while  I  get  the  wheel  off  "  —  though, 
indeed,  it  did  n't  really  need  much  stead}Ting. 


CONTENTMENT  105 

As  I  straightened  up,  whom  should  I  see 
but  Harriet  standing  transfixed  in  the  path 
way  half  way  down  to  the  barn,  transfixed 
with  horror.  She  had  recognised  John  Stark 
weather  and  had  heard  at  least  part  of  what 
I  said  to  him,  and  the  vision  of  that  im 
portant  man  bending  his  back  to  help  lift  the 
axle~of  my  old  wagon  was  too  terrible!  She 
caught  my  eye  and  pointed  and  mouthed. 
When  I  smiled  and  nodded,  John  Starkweathei 
straightened  up  and  looked  around. 

"Don't,  on  your  life,"  I  warned,  "let  go 
of  that  axle." 

He  held  on  and  Harriet  turned  and  re 
treated  ingloriously.  John  Starkweather's 
face  was  a  study! 

"Did  you  ever  grease  a  wagon?"  I  asked 
him  genially. 

"Never,"  he  said. 

"There's  more  of  an  art  in  it  than  you 
think,"  I  said,  and  as  I  worked  I  talked  to  him 
of  the  lore  of  axle-grease  and  showed  him  ex 
actly  how  to  put  it  on  —  neither  too  much  nor 
too  little,  and  so  that  it  would  distribute  itself 
evenly  when  the  wheel  was  replaced. 

"There  's  a  right  way  of  doing  everything," 
I  observed. 


io6  ADVENTURES  IN 

"That's  so,"  said  John  Starkweather:  "if 
I  could  only  get  workmen  that  believed  it." 

By  that  time  I  could  see  that  he  was  be 
ginning  to  be  interested.  I  put  back  the 
wheel,  gave  it  a  light  turn  and  screwed  on 
the  nut.  He  helped  me  with  the  other  end 
of  the  axle  with  all  good  humour. 

"Perhaps,"  I  said,  as  engagingly  as  I  knew 
how,  "you'd  like  to  try  the  art  yourself? 
You  take  the  grease  this  time  and  I. '11  steady 
the  wagon." 

"All  right!"  he  said,  laughing,  "I'm  in 
for  anything." 

He  took  the  grease  box  and  the  paddle 
—  less  gingerly  than  I  thought  he  would. 

"Is  that  right?"  he  demanded,  and  so 
he  put  on  the  grease.  And  oh,  it  was  good 
to  see  Harriet  in  the  doorway! 

"Steady  there,"  I  said,  "not  so  much  at 
the  end:  now  put  the  box  down  on  the  reach." 

And  so  together  we  greased  the  wagon, 
talking  all  the  time  in  the  friendliest  way. 
I  actually  believe  that  he  was  having  a  pretty 
good  time.  At  least  it  had  the  virtue  of 
unexpectedness.  He  was  n't  bored! 

When  he  had  finished  we  both  straight 
ened  our  backs  and  looked  at  each  other. 


CONTENTMENT  107 

There  was  a  twinkle  in  his  eye:  then  we 
both  laughed.  "He's  all  right,"  I  said  to 
myself.  I  held  up  my  hands,  then  he  held 
up  his:  it  was  hardly  necessary  to  prove 
that  wagon-greasing  was  not  a  delicate 
operation. 

"It 's  a  good  wholesome  sign,"  I  said,  "but 
it  11  come  off.  Do  you  happen  to  remember 
a  story  of  Tolstoi's  called  'Ivan  the  Fool'?" 

("What  is  a  farmer  doing  quoting  Tolstoi!" 
remarked  his  countenance  —  though  he  said 
not  a  word.) 

"In  the  kingdom  of  Ivan,  you  remember," 
I  said,  "  it  was  the  rule  that  whoever  had 
hard  places  on  his  hands  came  to  table,  but 
whoever  had  not  must  eat  what  the  others 
left." 

Thus  I  led  him  up  to  the  back  steps  and 
poured  him  a  basin  of  hot  water  —  which  I 
brought  myself  from  the  kitchen,  Harriet 
having  marvellously  and  completely  disap 
peared.  We  both  washed  our  hands,  talking 
with  great  good  humour. 

When  we  had  finished  I  said: 

"Sit  down,  friend,  if  you  've  time,  and  let 's 
talk." 

So  he  sat  down  on  one  of  the  logs  of  my 


io8  ADVENTURES  IN 

woodpile:  a  solid  sort  of  man,  rather  warm 
after  his  recent  activities.  He  looked  me 
over  with  some  interest  and,  I  thought, 
friendliness. 

"Why  does  a  man  like  you,"  he  asked 
finally,  "waste  himself  on  a  little  farm  back 
here  in  the  country?" 

For  a  single  instant  I  came  nearer  to  being 
angry  than  I  have  been  for  a  long  time.  Waste 
myself !  So  we  are  judged  without  knowledge. 
I  had  a  sudden  impulse  to  demolish  him  (if 
I  could)  with  the  nearest  sarcasms  I  could 
lay  hand  to.  He  was  so  sure  of  himself! 
"Oh  well,"  I  thought,  with  vainglorious 
superiority,  "he  doesn't  know."  So  I  said: 

"What  would  you  have  me  be  —  a  mil- 
lionnaire?" 

He  smiled,  but  with  a  sort  of  sincerity. 

"You  might  be,"  he  said:  "who  can  tell!" 

I  laughed  outright :  the  humour  of  it  struck 
me  as  delicious.  Here  I  had  been,  ever  since 
I  first  heard  of  John  Starkweather,  rather 
gloating  over  him  as  a  poor  suffering  million- 
naire  (of  course  millionnaires  are  unhappy), 
and  there  he  sat,  ruddy  of  face  and  hearty  of 
body,  pitying  me  for  a  poor  unfortunate  far 
mer  back  here  in  the  country!  Curious,  this 


CONTENTMENT  109 

human  nature  of  ours,  isn't  it?  But  how 
infinitely  beguiling! 

So  I  sat  down  beside  Mr.  Starkweather  on 
the  log  and  crossed  my  legs.  I  felt  as  though 
I  had  set  foot  in  a  new  country. 

"Would  you  really  advise  me,"  I  asked, 
^to  start  in  to  be  a  millionnaire?" 

He  chuckled: 

"  Well,  that 's  one  way  of  putting  it.  Hitch 
your  wagon  to  a  star;  but  begin  by  making 
a  few  dollars  more  a  year  than  you  spend. 

When  I  began "  he  stopped  short  with 

an  amused  smile,  remembering  that  I  did  not 
know  who  he  was. 

"Of  course,"  I  said,  "I  understand  that." 

"A  man  must  begin  small" — he  was  on 
pleasant  ground  —  "and  anywhere  he  likes, 
a  few  dollars  here,  a  few  there.  He  must 
work  hard,  he  must  save,  he  must  be  both 
bold  and  cautious.  I  know  a  man  who  began 
when  he  was  about  your  age  with  total  assets 
of  ten  dollars  and  a  good  digestion.  He  's 
now  considered  a  fairly  wealthy  man.  He 
has  a  home  in  the  city,  a  place  in  the  country, 
and  he  goes  to  Europe  when  he  likes.  He 
has  so  arranged  his  affairs  that  young  men  do 
most  of  the  work  and  he  draws  the  dividends 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  in 

—  and  all  in  a  little  more  than  twenty  years. 
I  made  every  single  cent  —  but  as  I  said,  it's 
a  penny  business  to  start  with.  The  point  is, 
I  like  to  see  young  men  ambitious." 

"Ambitious,"  I  asked,  "for  what?" 

"Why,  to  rise  in  the  world;  to  get  ahead." 

"I  know  you  '11  pardon  me,"  I  said,  "for 
appearing  to  cross-examine  you,  but  I  'm 
tremendously  interested  in  these  things.  What 
do  you  mean  by  rising?  And  who  am  I  to 
get  ahead  of?" 

He  looked  at  me  in  astonishment,  and 
with  evident  impatience  at  my  consummate 
stupidity. 

"I  am  serious,"  I  said.  "I  really  want  to 
make  the  best  I  can  of  my  life.  It 's  the  only 
one  I  'vegot." 

"See  here,"  he  said:  "let  us  say  you  clear 
up  five  hundred  a  year  from  this  farm " 

"You  exaggerate — "  I  interrupted. 

"Do  I?"  he  laughed;  "that  makes  my 
case  all  the  better.  Now,  is  n't  it  possible  to 
rise  from  that?  Could  n't  you  make  a  thou 
sand  or  five  thousand  or  even  fifty  thousand 
a  year?" 

It  seems  an  unanswerable  argument:  fifty 
thousand  dollars! 


ii2  ADVENTURES  IN 

"I  suppose  I  might,"  I  said,  "but  do  you 
think  I  'd  be  any  better  off  or  happier  with 
fifty  thousand  a  year  than  I  am  now?  You 
see,  I  like  all  these  surroundings  better  than 
any  other  place  I  ever  knew.  That  old  green 
hill  over  there  with  the  oak  on  it  is  an  intimate 
friend  of  mine.  I  have  a  good  cornfield  in 
which  every  year  I  work  miracles.  I  've  a 
cow  and  a  horse,  and  a  few  pigs.  I  have  a 
comfortable  home.  My  appetite  is  perfect, 
and  I  have  plenty  of  food  to  gratify  it.  1 
sleep  every  night  like  a  boy,  for  I  have  n't  a 
trouble  in  this  world  to  disturb  me.  I  enjoy 
the  mornings  here  in  the  country:  and  the 
evenings  are  pleasant.  Some  of  my  neigh 
bours  have  come  to  be  my  good  friends.  I 
like  them  and  I  am  pretty  sure  they  like  me. 
Inside  the  house  there  I  have  the  best  books 
ever  written  and  I  have  time  in  the  evenings 
to  read  them  —  I  mean  really  read  them.  Now 
the  question  is,  would  I  be  any  better  off,  or 
any  happier,  if  I  had  fifty  thousand  a  year?" 

John  Starkweather  laughed. 

"Well,  sir,"  he  said,  "I  see  I  Ve  made  the 
acquaintance  of  a  philosopher." 

"Let  us  say,"  I  continued,  "that  you  are 
willing  to  invest  twenty  years  of  your  life  in  a 


CONTENTMENT  113 

million  dollars."  ("Merely  an  illustration,'* 
said  John  Starkweather.)  "You  have  it 
where  you  can  put  it  in  the  bank  and  take  it 
out  again,  or  you  can  give  it  form  in  houses, 
yachts,  and  other  things.  Now  twenty  years 
of  my  life  —  to  me  —  is  worth  more  than  a 
million  dollars.  I  simply  can't  afford  to  sell 
if  for  that.  I  prefer  to  invest  it,  as  somebody 
or  other  has  said,  unearned  in  life.  I  've 
always  had  a  liking  for  intangible  properties." 

"See  here,"  said  John  Starkweather,  "you 
are  taking  a  narrow  view  of  life.  You  are 
making  your  own  pleasure  the  only  standard. 
Should  n't  a  man  make  the  most  of  the  talents 
given  him?  Has  n't  he  a  duty  to  society?" 

"Now  you  are  shifting  your  ground,"  I 
said,  "  from  the  question  of  personal  satisfac 
tion  to  that  of  duty.  That  concerns  me,  too. 
Let  me  ask  you :  Is  n't  it  important  to  society 
that  this  piece  of  earth  be  plowed  and  cul 
tivated?" 

"Yes,   but " 

" Isn  't  it  honest  and  useful  work?" 

"Of  course." 

"Isn't  it  important  that  it  shall  not  onl} 
be  done,  but  well  done?" 

"Certainly." 


ii4  ADVENTURES  IN 

"It  takes  all  there  is  in  a  good  man,"  I 
said,  "to  be  a  good  farmer.' 

"But  the  point  is,"  he  argued,  "might  not 
the  same  faculties  applied  to  other  things 
yield  better  and  bigger  results?" 

"That  is  a  problem,  of  course,"  I  said.  " I 
tried  money-making  once  —  in  a  city  —  and 
I  was  unsuccessful  and  unhappy;  here  I  am 
both  successful  and  happy.  I  suppose  I  was 
one  of  the  young  men  who  did  the  work  while 
some  millionnaire  drew  the  dividends."  (I 
was  cutting  close,  and  I  did  n't  venture  to 
look  at  him).  "No  doubt  he  had  his  houses 
and  yachts  and  went  to  Europe  when  he  liked. 
I  know  I  lived  upstairs  —  back  —  where 
there  was  n't  a  tree  to  be  seen,  or  a  spear  of 
green  grass,  or  a  hill,  or  a  brook:  only  smoke 
and  chimneys  and  littered  roofs.  Lord  be 
thanked  for  my  escape!  Sometimes  I  think 
that  Success  has  formed  a  silent  conspiracy 
against  Youth.  Success  holds  up  a  single 
glittering  apple  and  bids  Youth  strip  and  run 
for  it ;  and  Youth  runs  and  Success  still  holds 
the  apple." 

John  Starkweather  said  nothing. 
"Yes."    I    said,    "there    are    duties.     We 
realise,  we    farmers,   that  we  must  produce 


CONTENTMENT  115 

more  than  we  ourselves  can  eat  or  wear  or 
burn.  We  realise  that  we  are  the  foundation: 
we  connect  human  life  with  the  earth.  We 
dig  and  plant  and  produce,  and  having  eaten 
at  the  first  table  ourselves,  we  pass  what  is 
left  to  the  bankers  and  millionnaires.  Did  you , 
ever  think,  stranger,  that  most  of  the  wars  of 
the  world  have  been  fought  for  the  control  of 
this  farmer's  second  table?  Have  you 
thought  that  the  surplus  of  wheat  and  corn 
and  cotton  is  what  the  railroads  are  struggling 
to  carry?  Upon  our  surplus  run  all  the  fac 
tories  and  mills;  a  little  of  it  gathered  in 
cash  makes  a  millionnaire.  But  we  farmers, 
we  sit  back  comfortably  after  dinner,  and 
joke  with  our  wives  and  play  with  our  babies, 
and  let  all  the  rest  of  you  fight  for  the  crumbs 
that  fall  from  our  abundant  tables.  If  once 
we  really  cared  and  got  up  and  shook  our 
selves,  and  said  to  the  maid:  'Here,  child, 
don't  waste  the  crusts:  gather  'em  up  and 
to-morrow  we  '11  have  a  cottage  pudding,' 
where  in  the  world  would  all  the  millionnairea 
be?" 

Oh,  I  tell  you,  I  waxed  eloquent.  I 
could  n't  let  John  Starkweather,  or  any  other 
man,  get  away  with  the  conviction  that  a 


n6  ADVENTURES  IN 

millionnaire  is  better  than  a  farmer.  "  More* 
over,"  I  said,  "think  of  the  position  of  the 
millionnaire.  He  spends  his  time  playing  not 
with  life,  but  with  the  symbols  of  life,  whether 
cash  or  houses.  Any  day  the  symbols  may 
change;  a  little  war  may  happen  along,  there 
may  be  a  defective  flue  or  a  western  breeze, 
or  even  a  panic  because  the  farmers  are  n't 
scattering  as  many  crumbs  as  usual  (they 
call  it  crop  failure,  but  I  've  noticed  that 
the  farmers  still  continue  to  have  plenty  to 
eat)  and  then  what  happens  to  your  million 
naire?  Not  knowing  how  to  produce  any 
thing  himself,  he  would  starve  to  death  if 
there  were  not  always,  somewhere,  a  farmer 
to  take  him  up  to  the  table." 

"You're  making  a  strong  case,"  laughed 
John  Starkweather. 

"Strong!"  I  said.  "It  is  simply  wonder 
ful  what  a  leverage  upon  society  a  few  acres 
of  land,  a  cow,  a  pig  or  two,  and  a  span  of 
horses  gives  a  man.  I  'm  ridiculously  in 
dependent.  I  'd  be  the  hardest  sort  of  a  man 
to  dislodge  or  crush.  I  tell  you,  my  friend, 
a  farmer  is  like  an  oak,  his  roots  strike  deep 
in  the  soil,  he  draws  a  sufficiency  of  food  from 
the  earth  itself,  he  breathes  the  free  air  around 


CONTENTMENT  117 

him,  his  thirst  is  quenched  by  heaven  itself  — 
and  there  's  no  tax  on  sunshine." 

I  paused  for  very  lack  of  breath.  John 
Starkweather  was  laughing. 

"When  you  commiserate  me,  therefore" 
("I  'm  sure  I  shall  never  do  it  again,"  said 
John  Starkweather)  —  •"  when  you  commiserate 
me,  therefore,  and  advise  me  to  rise,  you  must 
give  me  really  good  reasons  for  changing  my 
occupation  and  becoming  a  millionnaire.  You 
must  prove  to  me  that  I  can  be  more  indepen 
dent,  more  honest,  moreuseful  as  a  millionnaire, 
and  that  I  shall  have  better  and  truer  friends !" 

John  Starkweather  looked  around  at  me 
(I  knew  I  had  been  absurdly  eager  and  I  was 
rather  ashamed  of  myself)  and  put  his  hand 
on  my  knee  (he  has  a  wonderfully  fine  eye !).. 

"I  don't  believe,"  he  said,  "you'd  have 
any  truer  friends." 

"Anyway,"  I  said  repentantly,  "I  '11  admit 
that  millionnaires  have  their  place  —  at  present 
I  would  n't  do  entirely  away  with  them, 
though  I  do  think  they  'd  enjoy  farming  bet 
ter.  And  if  I  were  to  select  a  millionnaire  for 
all  the  best  things  I  know,  I  should  certainly 
choose  you,  Mr.  Starkweather." 

He  jumped  up. 


n8  ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT 

"You  know  who  I  am?"  he  asked. 

I  nodded. 

"And  you  knew  all  the  time?" 

I  nodded. 

"Well,  you  're  a  good  one! " 

We  both  laughed  and  fell  to  talking  with 
the  greatest  friendliness.  I  led  him  down  my 
garden  to  show  him  my  prize  pie-plant,  of 
which  I  am  enormously  proud,  and  I  pulled 
for  him  some  of  the  finest  stalks  I  could  find. 

"Take  it  home,"  I  said,  "it  makes  the  best 
pies  of  any  pie-plant  in  this  country." 

He  took  it  under  his  arm. 

"I  want  you  to  come  over  and  see  me  the 
first  chance  you  get,"  he  said.  "I  'm  going 
to  prove  to  you  by  physical  demonstration 
that  it 's  better  sport  to  be  a  millionnaire  than 
a  farmer  —  not  that  I  am  a  millionnaire:  I  'm 
only  accepting  the  reputation  you  give  me." 

So  I  walked  with  him  down  to  the  lane. 

"Let  me  know  when  you  grease  up  again,'* 
he  said,  "and  I  11  come  over." 

So  we  shook  hands:  and  he  set  off  sturdily 
down  the  road  with  the  pie-plant  leaves 
waving  cheerfully  over  his  shoulder. 


"  Somehow,  and  suddenly,  I  was  a  boj  again " 

VIII 
A  BOY  AND  A  PREACHER 

THIS  morning  I  went  to  church  with  Har 
riet.  I  usually  have  some  excuse  for 
not  going,  but  this  morning  I  had  them  out 
one  by  one  and  they  were  altogether  so  shabby 
that  I  decided  not  to  use  them.  So  I  put  on 
my  stiff  shirt  and  Harriet  came  out  in  her 
best  black  cape  with  the  silk  fringes.  She 
looked  so  immaculate,  so  ruddy,  so  cheer 
fully  sober  (for  Sunday)  that  I  was  recon 
ciled  to  the  idea  of  driving  her  up  to  the 
church.  And  I  am  glad  I  went,  for  the  ex 
perience  I  had. 

"9 


120  ADVENTURES  IN 

It  was  an  ideal  summer  Sunday:  sunshiny, 
clear  and  still.  I  believe  if  I  had  been  some 
Rip  Van  Winkle  waking  after  twenty  years' 
sleep  I  should  have  known  it  for  Sunday. 
Away  off  over  the  hill  somewhere  we  could 
hear  a  lazy  farm  boy  singing  at  the  top  of  his 
voice:  the  higher  cadences  of  his  song  reached 
us  pleasantly  through  the  still  air.  The  hens 
sitting  near  the  lane  fence,  fluffing  the  dust 
over  their  backs,  were  holding  a  small  and 
talkative  service  of  their  own.  As  we  turned 
into  the  main  road  we  saw  the  Patterson 
children  on  their  way  to  church,  all  the  little 
girls  in  Sunday  ribbons,  and  all  the  little  boys 
very  uncomfortable  in  knit  stockings. 

"It  seems  a  pity  to  go  to  church  on  a  day 
like  this,"  I  said  to  Harriet. 

"A  pity!"  she  exclaimed.  "Could  any 
thing  be  more  appropriate?" 

Harriet  is  good  because  she  can't  help  it. 
Poor  woman!  — but  I  haven't  any  pity  for 
her. 

It  sometimes  seems  to  me  the  more  worship 
ful  I  feel  the  less  I  want  to  go  to  church.  I 
don't  know  why  it  is,  but  these  forms,  simple 
though  they  are,  trouble  me.  The  moment 
an  emotion,  especially  a  religious  emotion, 


CONTENTMENT  121 

becomes  an  institution,  it  somehow  loses  life. 
True  emotion  is  rare  and  costly  and  that 
which  is  awakened  from  without  never  rises 
to  the  height  of  that  which  springs  sponta 
neously  from  within. 

Back  of  the  church  stands  a  long  low  shed 
where  we  tied  our  horse.  A  number  of  other 
buggies  were  already  there,  several  women 
were  standing  in  groups,  preening  their 
feathers,  a  neighbour  of  ours  who  has  a 
tremendous  bass  voice  was  talking  to  a  friend: 

' '  Yas,  oats  is  showing  up  well,  but  wheat  is 
backward." 

His  voice,  which  he  was  evidently  trying 
to  subdue  for  Sunday,  boomed  through  the 
still  air.  So  we  walked  among  the  trees  to 
the  door  of  the  church.  A  smiling  elder,  in 
an  unaccustomed  long  coat,  bowed  and 
greeted  us.  As  we  went  in  there  was  an  odour 
of  cushions  and  our  footsteps  on  the  wooden 
floor  echoed  in  the  warm  emptiness  of  the 
church.  The  Scotch  preacher  was  finding  his 
place  in  the  big  Bible;  he  stood  solid  and 
shaggy  behind  the  yellow  oak  pulpit,  a  pecu 
liar  professional  look  on  his  face.  In  the  pul 
pit  the  Scotch  preacher  it  too  much  minister, 
too  little  man.  He  is  b^st  down  among  us 


122  ADVENTURES  IN 

with  his  hand  in  ours.  He  is  a  sort  of  human 
solvent.  Is  there  a  twisted  and  hardened 
heart  in  the  community  he  beams  upon  it 
from  his  cheerful  eye,  he  speaks  out  of  his 
great  charity,  he  gives  the  friendly  pressure 
of  his  large  hand,  and  that  hardened  heart 
dissolves  and  its  frozen  hopelessness  loses 
itself  in  tears.  So  he  goes  through  life,  seem 
ing  always  to  understand.  He  is  not  sur 
prised  by  wickedness  nor  discouraged  by 
weakness:  he  is  so  sure  of  a  greater  Strength! 

But  I  must  come  to  my  experience,  which 
I  am  almost  tempted  to  call  a  resurrection  — 
the  resurrection  of  a  boy,  long  since  gone 
away,  and  of  a  tall  lank  preacher  who.  in  his 
humility,  looked  upon  himself  as  a  failure. 
I  hardly  know  how  it  all  came  back  to  me; 
possibly  it  was  the  scent-laden  breeze  that 
came  in  from  the  woods  through  the  half- 
open  church  window,  perhaps  it  was  a  line  in 
one  of  the  old  songs,  perhaps  it  was  the  dron 
ing  voice  of  the  Scotch  preacher  —  some 
how,  and  suddenly,  I  was  a  boy  again. 

To  this  day  I  think  of  death  as  a  valley: 

a  dark  shadowy  valley:  the  Valley  of  the 
Shadow  of  Death.  So  persistent  are  the 
impressions  of  boyhood!  As  I  sat  in  the 


CONTENTMENT  123 

church  I  could  see,  as  distinctly  as  though  I 
were  there,  the  church  of  my  boyhood  and 
the  tall  dyspeptic  preacher  looming  above 
the  pulpit,  the  peculiar  way  the  light  came 
through  the  coarse  colour  of  the  windows,  the 
barrenness  and  stiffness  of  the  great  empty 
room,  the  raw  girders  overhead,  the  prim 
choir.  There  was  something  in  that  preacher, 
gaunt,  worn,  sodden  though  he  appeared: 
a  spark  somewhere,  a  little  flame,  mostly 
smothered  by  the  gray  dreariness  of  his  sur 
roundings,  and  yet  blazing  up  at  times  to 
some  warmth. 

As  I  remember  it,  our  church  was  a  church 
of  failures.  They  sent  us  the  old  gray 
preachers  worn  out  in  other  fields.  Such  a 
succession  of  them  I  remember,  each  with  some 
peculiarity,  some  pathos.  They  were  of  the 
old  sort,  indoctrinated  Presbyterians,  and 
they  harrowed  well  our  barren  field  with  the 
tooth  of  their  hard  creed.  Some  thundered 
the  Law,  some  pleaded  Love;  but  of  all  of 
them  I  remember  best  the  one  who  thought 
himself  the  greatest  failure.  I  think  he  had 
tried  a  hundred  churches  —  a  hard  life,  poorly 
paid,  unappreciated  —  in  a  new  country.  He 
had  once  had  a  family,  but  one  by  one  they 


124  ADVENTURES  IN 

had  died.  No  two  were  buried  in  the  same 
cemetery;  and  finally,  before  he  came  to  our 
village,  his  wife,  too,  had  gone.  And  he  was 
old,  and  out  of  health,  and  discouraged:  seek 
ing  some  final  warmth  from  his  own  cold 
doctrine.  How  I  see  him,  a  trifle  bent,  in  his 
long  worn  coat,  walking  in  the  country  roads: 
not  knowing  of  a  boy  who  loved  him! 

He  told  my  father  once:  I  recall  his  exact 
words: 

"My  days  have  been  long,  and  I  have  failed. 
It  was  not  given  me  to  reach  men's  hearts." 

Oh  gray  preacher,  may  I  now  make 
amends?  Will  you  forgive  me?  I  was  a  boy 
and  did  not  know;  a  boy  whose  emotions 
were  hidden  under  mountains  of  reserve: 
who  could  have  stood  up  to  be  shot  more 
easily  than  he  could  have  said:  "  I  love  you! " 

Of  that  preacher's  sermons  I  remember  not 
one  word,  though  I  must  have  heard  scores 
of  them  —  only  that  they  were  interminably 
long  and  dull  and  that  my  legs  grew  weary  of 
sitting  and  that  I  was  often  hungry.  It  was 
no  doubt  the  dreadful  old  doctrine  that  he 
preached,  thundering  the  horrors  of  disobe 
dience,  urging  an  impossible  love  through  fear 
and  a  vain  belief  without  reason.  All  that 


CONTENTMENT  125 

touched  me  not  at  all,  save  with  a  sort  of  won 
der  at  the  working  of  his  great  Adam's  apple 
and  the  strange  rollings  of  his  cavernous  eyes. 
This  he  looked  upon  as  the  work  of  God;  thus 
for  years  he  had  sought,  with  self-confessed 
failure,  to  touch  the  souls  of  his  people.  How 
we  travel  in  darkness  and  the  work  we  do  in 
all  seriousness  counts  for  naught,  and  the  thing 
we  toss  off  in  play-time,  unconsciously,  God 
uses! 

One  tow-headed  boy  sitting  there  in  a  front 
row  dreaming  dreams,  if  the  sermons  touched 
him  not,  was  yet  thrilled  to  the  depths  of  his 
being  by  that  tall  preacher.  Somewhere, 
I  said,  he  had  a  spark  within  him.  I  think 
he  never  knew  it:  or  if  he  knew  it,  he  regarded 
it  as  a  wayward  impulse  that  might  lead  him 
from  his  God.  It  was  a  spark  of  poetry: 
strange  flower  in  such  a  husk.  In  times  of 
emotion  it  bloomed,  but  in  daily  life  it  emitted 
no  fragrance.  I  have  wondered  what  might 
have  been  if  some  one  —  some  understanding 
woman  —  had  recognised  his  gift,  or  if  he 
himself  as  a  boy  had  once  dared  to  cut  free! 
We  do  not  know:  we  do  not  know  the  tragedy 
of  our  nearest  friend ! 

By  some  instinct  the  preacher  chose  his 


126  ADVENTURES  IN 

readings  mostly  from  the  Old  Testament  — 
those  splendid,  marching  passages,  full  of 
oriental  imagery.  As  he  read  there  would 
creep  into  his  voice  a  certain  resonance  that 
lifted  him  and  his  calling  suddenly  above  his 
gray  surroundings. 

How  vividly  I  recall  his  reading  of  the 
twenty-third  Psalm  —  a  particular  reading.  I 
suppose  I  had  heard  the  passage  many  times 
before,  but  upon  this  certain  morning 

Shall  I  ever  forget?  The  windows  were 
open,  for  it  was  May,  and  a  boy  could  look 
out  on  the  hillside  and  see  with  longing  eyes 
the  inviting  grass  and  trees.  A  soft  wind 
blew  in  across  the  church ;  it  was  full  of  the 
very  essence  of  spring.  I  smell  it  yet.  On 
the  pulpit  stood  a  bunch  of  crocuses  crowded 
into  a  vase:  some  Mary's  offering.  An  old 
man  named  Johnson  who  sat  near  us  was 
already  beginning  to  breathe  heavily,  prepar 
atory  to  sinking  into  his  regular  Sunday 
snore.  Then  those  words  from  the  preacher, 
bringing  me  suddenly  —  how  shall  I  express 
it? — out  of  some  formless  void,  to  intense 
consciousness  —  a  miracle  of  creation: 

"Yea    though    I    walk    through     the    valley  of 
the    shadow    of    death,    I    will    fear    no    evil:     for 


CONTENTMENT  127 

them   art  with   me;   thy    rod    and   thy    staff    they 
comfort  me." 

Well,  I  saw  the  way  to  the  place  of  death 
that  morning;  far  more  vividly  I  saw  it  than 
any  natural  scene  I  know :  and  myself  walking 
therein.  I  shall  know  it  again  when  I  come 
to  pass  that  way;  the  tall,  dark,  rocky  cliffs, 
the  shadowy  path  within,  the  overhanging 
dark  branches,  even  the  whitened  dead  bones 
by  the  way  —  and  as  one  of  the  vivid  phan 
tasms  of  boyhood  —  cloaked  figures  I  saw, 
lurking  mysteriously  in  deep  recesses,  fear 
some  for  their  very  silence.  And  yet  I  with 
magic  rod  and  staff  walking  within  —  boldly, 
fearing  no  evil,  full  of  faith,  hope,  courage, 
love,  invoking  images  of  terror  but  for  the 
joy  of  braving  them.  Ah,  tow-headed  boy, 
shall  I  tread  as  lightly  that  dread  pathway 
when  I  come  to  it?  Shall  I,  like  you,  fear 
no  evil! 

So  that  great  morning  went  away.  I 
heard  nothing  of  singing  or  sermon  and  came 
not  to  myself  until  my  mother,  touching 
my  arm,  asked  me  if  I  had  been  asleep !  And 
I  smiled  and  thought  how  little  grown  people 
knew  —  and  I  looked  up  at  the  sad  sick  face 
of  the  old  preacher  with  a  new  interest  and 


128  ADVENTURES  IN 

friendliness.  I  felt,  somehow,  that  he  too 
was  a  familiar  of  my  secret  valley.  I  should 
have  liked  to  ask  him,  but  I  did  not  dare. 
So  I  followed  my  mother  when  she  went  to 
speak  to  him,  and  when  he  did  not  see,  I 
touched  his  coat. 

After  that  how  I  watched  when  he  came 
to  the  reading.  And  one  great  Sunday,  he 
chose  a  chapter  from  Ecclesiastes,  the  one 
that  begins  sonorously: 

"Remember  now  thy  creator  in  the  days  of  thy 
youth." 

Surely  that  gaunt  preacher  had  the  true 
fire  in  his  gray  soul.  How  his  voice  dwelt 
and  quivered  and  softened  upon  the  words! 

"  While  the  sun,  or  the  light,  or  the  moon,  or  the 
stars,  be  not  darkened,  nor  the  clouds  return  after 
the  rain " 

Thus  he  brought  in  the  universe  to  that 
small  church  and  filled  the  heart  of  a  boy. 

"  In  the  days  when  the  keepers  of  the  house  shall 
tremble,  and  the  strong  men  shall  bow  themselves, 
and  the  grinders  cease  because  they  are  few,  and 
those  that  look  out  of  the  windows  be  darkened. 

"And  the  doors  shall  be  shut  in  the  streets,  when 
the  sound  of  the  grinding  is  low,  and  he  shall  rise  up 


CONTENTMENT  129 

at  the  voice  of  the    bird  and  all  the  daughters  of 
music  shall  be  brought  low." 

Do  not  think  that  I  understood  the  mean 
ing  of  those  passages:  I  am  not  vain  enough 
to  think  I  know  even  now  —  but  the  sound 
of  them,  the  roll  of  them,  the  beautiful  words, 
and  above  all,  the  pictures ! 

Those  Daughters  of  Music,  how  I  lived 
for  days  imagining  them!  They  were  of 
the  trees  and  the  hills,  and  they  were  very 
beautiful  but  elusive;  one  saw  them  as  he 
heard  singing  afar  off,  sweet  strains  fading 
often  into  silences.  Daughters  of  Music! 
Daughters  of  Music!  And  why  should  they 
be  brought  low? 

Doors  shut  in  the  streets  —  how  I  saw 
them  —  a  long,  long  street,  silent,  full  of 
sunshine,  and  the  doors  shut,  and  no  sound 
anywhere  but  the  low  sound  of  the  grinding: 
and  the  mill  with  the  wheels  drowsily  turn 
ing  and  no  one  there  at  all  save  one  boy 
with  fluttering  heart,  tiptoeing  in  the  sunlit 
doorway. 

And  the  voice  of  the  bird.  Not  the  song 
but  the  voice.  Yes,  a  bird  had  a  voice.  I 
had  known  it  always,  and  yet  somehow 
I  had  not  dared  to  say  it.  I  felt  that  they 


i3o  ADVENTURES  IN 

would  look  at  me  with  that  questioning, 
incredulous  look  which  I  dreaded  beyond 
belief.  They  might  laugh!  But  here  it  was 
in  the  Book  —  the  voice  of  a  bird.  How 
my  appreciation  of  that  Book  increased 
and  what  a  new  confidence  it  gave  me  in  my 
own  images!  I  went  about  for  days,  listening, 
listening,  listening  —  and  interpreting. 

So  the  words  of  the  preacher  and  the  fire 
in  them : 

"And  when  they  shall  be  afraid  of  that  which  is 
high  and  fears  shall  be  in  the  way " 

I  knew  the  fear  of  that  which  is  high:  I 
had  dreamed  of  it  commonly.  And  I  knew 
also  the  Fear  that  stood  in  the  way:  him  I 
had  seen  in  a  myriad  of  forms,  looming 
black  by  darkness  in  every  lane  I  trod;  and 
yet  with  what  defiance  I  met  and  slew  him ! 

And  then,  more  thrilling  than  all  else,  the 
words  of  the  preacher: 

"  Or  ever  the  silver  cord  be  loosed,  or  the  golden 
bowl  be  broken,  or  the  pitcher  be  broken  at  the  foun 
tain,  or  the  wheel  broken  at  the  cistern." 

Such  pictures :  that  silver  cord,  that  golden 
bowl!  And  why  and  wherefore? 


CONTENTMENT  131 

A  thousand  ways  I  turned  them  in  my 
mind  —  and  always  with  the  sound  of  the 
preacher's  voice  in  my  ears  —  the  resonance 
of  the  words  conveying  an  indescribable  fire 
of  inspiration.  Vaguely  and  yet  with  cer 
tainty  I  knew  the  preacher  spoke  out  of 
some  unfathomable  emotion  which  I  did 
not  understand  —  which  I  did  not  care  to 
understand.  Since  then  I  have  thought  what 
those  words  must  have  meant  to  him ! 

Ah,  that  tall  lank  preacher,  who  thought 
himself  a  failure:  how  long  I  shall  remember 
him  and  the  words  he  read  and  the  mourn 
ful  yet  resonant  cadences  of  his  voice  —  and 
the  barren  church,  and  the  stony  religion! 
Heaven  he  gave  me,  unknowing,  while  he 
preached  an  ineffectual  hell. 

As  we  rode  home  Harriet  looked  into  my 
face. 

"You  have  enjoyed  the  service,"  she  said 
softly. 

"Yes,"  I  said. 

"  It  was  a  good  sermon,"  she  said. 

"Was  it?"  I  replied. 


IX 


THE  TRAMP 

I  HAVE  had  a  new  and  strange  experi 
ence  —  droll  in  one  way,  grotesque  in 
another  and  when  everything  is  said,  tragic: 
at  least  an  adventure.  Harriet  looks  at  me 
accusingly,  and  I  have  had  to  preserve  the 
air  of  one  deeply  contrite  now  for  two  days 
(no  easy  accomplishment  for  me!),  even 
though  in  secret  I  have  smiled  and  pondered. 

How  our  life  has  been  warped  by  books! 
We  are  not  contented  with  realities:  we 
crave  conclusions.  With  what  ardour  our 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  133 

minds  respond  to  real  events  with  literary 
deductions.  Upon  a  train  of  incidents,  as 
unconnected  as  life  itself,  we  are  wont  to 
clap  a  booky  ending.  An  instinctive  desire 
for  completeness  animates  the  human  mind 
(a  struggle  to  circumscribe  the  infinite). 
We  would  like  to  have  life  "turn  out"  -  but 
it  does  n't  —  it  does  n't.  Each  event  is  the 
beginning  of  a  whole  new  genealogy  of  events. 
In  boyhood  I  remember  asking  after  every 
story  I  heard:  "What  happened  next?"  for 
no  conclusion  ever  quite  satisfied  me  —  even 
when  the  hero  died  in  his  own  gore.  I  always 
knew  there  was  something  yet  remaining 
to  be  told.  The  only  sure  conclusion  we  can 
reach  is  this:  Life  changes.  And  what  is 
more  enthralling  to  the  human  mind  than 
this  splendid,  boundless,  coloured  mutability! 
—  life  in  the  making?  How  strange  it  is, 
then,  that  we  should  be  contented  to  take 
such  small  parts  of  it  as  we  can  grasp,  and  to 
say,  "This  is  the  true  explanation."  By 
such  devices  we  seek  to  bring  infinite  existence 
within  our  finite  egoistic  grasp.  We  solidify 
and  define  where  solidification  means  loss  of 
interest;  and  loss  of  interest,  not  years,  is 
old  age. 


i34  ADVENTURES  IN 

So  I  have  mused  since  my  tramp  came 
in  for  a  moment  out  of  the  Mystery  (as  we 
all  do)  and  went  away  again  into  the  Mys 
tery  (in  our  way,  too) . 

There  are  strange  things  in  this  world! 

As  I  came  around  the  corner  I  saw  sitting 
there  on  my  steps  the  very  personification 
of  Ruin,  a  tumble-down,  dilapidated  wreck 
of  manhood.  He  gave  one  the  impression 
of  having  been  dropped  where  he  sat,  all 
in  a  heap.  My  first  instinctive  feeling  was 
not  one  of  recoil  or  even  of  hostility,  but 
rather  a  sudden  desire  to  pick  him  up  and 
put  him  where  he  belonged,  the  instinct,  I 
should  say,  of  the  normal  man  who  hangs 
his  axe  always  on  the  same  nail.  When  he 
saw  me  he  gathered  himself  together  with 
reluctance  and  stood  fully  revealed.  It  was 
a  curious  attitude  of  mingled  effrontery  and 
apology.  "Hit  me  if  you  dare,"  blustered 
his  outward  personality.  "For  God's  sake, 
don't  hit  me,"  cried  the  innate  fear  in  his 
eyes.  I  stopped  and  looked  at  him  sharply. 
His  eyes  dropped,  his  look  slid  away,  so  that 
I  experienced  a  sense  of  shame,  as  though  I 
had  trampled  upon  him.  A  damp  rag  of 


CONTENTMENT  135 

humanity!  I  confess  that  my  first  impulse, 
and  a  strong  one,  was  to  kick  him  for  the 
good  of  the  human  race.  No  man  has  a 
right  to  be  like  that. 

And  then,  quite  suddenly,  I  had  a  great 
revulsion  of  feeling.  What  was  I  that  I 
should  judge  without  knowledge?  Perhaps, 
after  all,  here  was  one  bearing  treasure.  So 
I  said: 

"You  are  the  man  I  have  been  expecting." 

He  did  not  reply,  only  flashed  his  eyes  up 
at  me,  wherein  fear  deepened. 

"I  have  been  saving  up  a  coat  for  you,"  I 
said,  "and  a  pair  of  shoes.  They  are  not 
much  worn,"  I  said,  "but  a  little  too  small 
for  me.  I  think  they  will  fit  you." 

He  looked  at  me  again,  not  sharply,  but 
with  a  sort  of  weak  cunning.  So  far  he  had 
not  said  a  word. 

"I  think  our  supper  is  nearly  ready,"  I 
said:  "let  us  go  in." 

"No,  mister,"  he  mumbled,  "a  bite  out 
here  —  no,  mister" — and  then,  as  though 
the  sound  of  his  own  voice  inspired  him,  he 
grew  declamatory. 

"I  'm  a  respectable  man,  mister,  plumber 
bv  trade,  but " 


136  ADVENTURES  IN 

"But,"  I  interrupted,  "you  can't  get  any 
work,  you  're  cold  and  you  have  n't  had  any 
thing  to  eat  for  two  days,  so  you  are  walking 
out  here  in  the  country  where  we  farmers 
have  no  plumbing  to  do.  At  home  you  have 
a  starving  wife  and  three  small  children — " 

' '  Six,  mister ' ' 

"Well,  six —  And  now  we  will  go  in  to 
supper." 

I  led  him  into  the  entry  way  and  poured 
for  him  a  big  basin  of  hot  water.  As  I  stepped 
out  again  with  a  comb  he  was  slinking  toward 
the  doorway. 

"Here,"  I  said,  "is  a  comb;  we  are  having 
supper  now  in  a  few  minutes." 

I  wish  I  could  picture  Harriet's  face  when 
I  brought  him  into  her  immaculate  kitchen. 
But  I  gave  her  a  look,  one  of  the  command 
ing  sort  that  I  can  put  on  in  times  of  great 
emergency,  and  she  silently  laid  another 
place  at  the  table. 

When  I  came  to  look  at  our  Ruin  by  the 
full  lamplight  I  was  surprised  to  see  what  a 
change  a  little  warm  water  and  a  comb  had 
wrought  in  him.  He  came  to  the  table  un 
certain,  blinking,  apologetic.  His  forehead, 
I  saw,  was  really  impressive  —  high,  narrow 


CONTENTMENT  137 

and  thin-skinned.  His  face  gave  one  some 
how  the  impression  of  a  carving  once  full  of 
significant  lines,  now  blurred  and  worn,  as 
though  Time,  having  first  marked  it  with  the 
lines  of  character,  had  grown  discouraged 
and  brushed  the  hand  of  forgetfulness  over 
her  work.  He  had  peculiar  thin,  silky  hair 
of  no  particular  colour,  with  a  certain  almost 
childish  pathetic  waviness  around  the  ears 
and  at  the  back  of  the  neck.  Something, 
after  all,  about  the  man  aroused  one's  com 
passion. 

I  don't  know  that  he  looked  dissipated, 
and  surely  he  was  not  as  dirty  as  I  had  at 
first  supposed.  Something  remained  that 
suggested  a  care  for  himself  in  the  past.  It 
was  not  dissipation,  I  decided;  it  was  rather 
an  indefinable  looseness  and  weakness,  that 
gave  one  alternately  the  feeling  I  had  first  ex 
perienced,  that  of  anger,  succeeded  by  the 
compassion  that  one  feels  for  a  child.  To 
Harriet,  when  she  had  once  seen  him,  he  was 
all  child,  and  she  all  compassion. 

We  disturbed  him  with  no  questions. 
Harriet's  fundamental  quality  is  homeliness, 
comfortableness.  Her  tea-kettle  seems  al 
ways  singing;  an  indefinable  tabbiness,  as 


i3 8  ADVENTURES  IN 

of  feather  cushions,  lurks  in  her  dining-room, 
a  right  warmth  of  table  and  chairs,  inde 
scribably  comfortable  at  the  end  of  a  chilly 
day.  A  busy  good-smelling  steam  arises 
from  all  her  dishes  at  once,  and  the  light  in 
the  middle  of  the  table  is  of  a  redness  that 
enthralls  the  human  soul.  As  for  Harriet 
herself,  she  is  the  personification  of  comfort, 
airy,  clean,  warm,  inexpressibly  wholesome. 
And  never  in  the  world  is  she  so  engaging  as 
when  she  ministers  to  a  man's  hunger.  Truth 
fully,  sometimes,  when  she  comes  to  me  out 
of  the  dimmer  light  of  the  kitchen  to  the  ra 
diance  of  the  table  with  a  plate  of  muffins, 
it  is  as  though  she  and  the  muffins  were  a 
part  of  each  other,  and  that  she  is  really 
offering  some  of  herself.  And  down  in  my 
heart  I  know  she  is  doing  just  that! 

Well,  it  was  wonderful  to  see  our  Ruin 
expand  in  the  warmth  of  Harriet's  presence. 
He  had  been  doubtful  of  me;  of  Harriet,  I 
could  see,  he  was  absolutely  sure.  And 
how  he  did  eat,  saying  nothing  at  all,  while 
Harriet  plied  him  with  food  and  talked  to 
me  of  the  most  disarming  commonplaces.  I 
think  it  did  her  heart  good  to  see  the  way  he 
ate:  as  though  he  had  had  nothing  before 


CONTENTMENT  139 

in  days.  As  he  buttered  his  muffin,  not  with 
out  some  refinement,  I  could  see  that  his 
hand  was  long,  a  curious,  lean,  ineffectual 
hand,  with  a  curving  little  finger.  With  the 
drinking  of  the  hot  coffee  colour  began  to 
steal  up  into  his  face,  and  when  Harriet 
brought  out  a  quarter  of  pie  saved  over  from 
our  .dinner  and  placed  it  before  him  —  a  fine 
brown  pie  with  small  hieroglyphics  in  the 
top  from  whence  rose  sugary  bubbles  —  he 
seemed  almost  to  escape  himself.  And 
Harriet  fairly  purred  with  hospitality. 

The  more  he  ate  the  more  of  a  man  he 
became.  His  manners  improved,  his  back 
straightened  up,  he  acquired  a  not  unimpres 
sive  poise  of  the  head.  Such  is  the  miraculous 
power  of  hot  muffins  and  pie! 

"As  you  came  down,"  I  asked  finally, 
"did  you  happen  to  see  old  man  Master- 
son's  threshing  machine?" 

"A  big  red  one,  with  a  yellow  blow-off?" 

"That 's  the  one,"  I  said. 

"Well,  it  was  just  turning  into  a  field 
about  two  miles  above  here,"  he  replied. 

"  Big  gray,  banked  barn? "  I  asked. 

"Yes,  and  a  little  unpainted  house,"  said 
our  friend. 


i4o  ADVENTURES  IN 

"That's  Parsons',"  put  in  Harriet,  with  a 
mellow  laugh.  "I  wonder  if  he  ever  will 
paint  that  house.  He  builds  bigger  barns 
every  year  and  does  n't  touch  the  house. 
Poor  Mrs.  Parsons " 

And  so  we  talked  of  barns  and  threshing 
machines  in  the  way  we  farmers  love  to  do  and 
I  lured  our  friend  slowly  into  talking  about 
himself.  At  first  he  was  non-committal  enough 
and  what  he  said  seemed  curiously  made  to 
order;  he  used  certain  set  phrases  with  which 
to  explain  simply  what  was  not  easy  to  ex 
plain  —  a  device  not  uncommon  to  all  of  us. 
I  was  fearful  of  not  getting  within  this 
outward  armouring,  but  gradually  as  we  talked 
and  Harriet  poured  him  a  third  cup  of  hot 
coffee  he  dropped  into  a  more  familiar 
tone.  He  told  with  some  sprightliness  of 
having  seen  threshings  in  Mexico,  how  the 
grain  was  beaten  out  with  flails  in  the  patios, 
and  afterwards  thrown  up  in  the  wind  to 
winnow  out. 

"You  must  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  life," 
remarked  Harriet  sympathetically. 

At  this  remark  I  saw  one  of  our  Ruin's 
long  hands  draw  up  and  clinch.  He  turned 
his  head  toward  Harriet.  His  face  was 


CONTENTMENT  141 

partly  in  the  shadow,  but  there  was  some 
thing  striking  and  strange  in  the  way  he 
looked  at  her,  and  a  deepness  in  his  voice 
when  he  spoke: 

"Too  much!  I  've  seen  too  much  of  life." 
He  threw  out  one  arm  and  brought  it  back 
with  a  shudder. 

"You  see  what  it  has  left  me,"  he  said 
"  I  am  an  example  of  too  much  life." 

In  response  to  Harriet's  melting  com 
passion  he  had  spoken  with  unfathomable 
bitterness.  Suddenly  he  leaned  forward  to 
ward  me  with  a  piercing  gaze  as  though  he 
would  look  into  my  soul.  His  face  had 
changed  completely;  from  the  loose  and  va 
cant  mask  of  the  early  evening  it  had  taken 
on  the  utmost  tensity  of  emotion. 

"You  do  not  know,"  he  said,  "what  it  is 
to  live  too  much  —  and  to  be  afraid." 

"Live  too  much?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  live  too  much,  that  is  what  I  do  - 
and  I  am  afraid." 

He  paused  a  moment  and  then  broke  out 
in  a  higher  key: 

"You  think  I  am  a  tramp.  Yes  —  you 
do.  I  know  —  a  worthless  fellow,  lying, 
begging  stealing  when  he  can't  beg.  You 


i42  ADVENTURES  IN 

have  taken  me  in  and  fed  me.  You  have 
said  the  first  kind  words  I  have  heard,  it 
seems  to  me,  in  years.  I  don't  know  who 
you  are.  I  shall  never  see  you  again." 

I  cannot  well  describe  the  intensity  of  the 
passion  with  which  he  spoke,  his  face  shaking 
with  emotion,  his  hands  trembling. 

"Oh,  yes,"  I  said  easily,  "we  are  com 
fortable  people  here  —  and  it  is  a  good  place 
to  live." 

"No,  no,"  he  returned.  "I  know,  I  've 
got  my  call — "  Then  leaning  forward  he 
said  in  a  lower,  even  more  intense  voice  — 
"I  live  everything  beforehand." 

I  was  startled  by  the  look  of  his  eyes:  the 
abject  terror  of  it:  and  I  thought  to  myself, 
"The  man  is  not  right  in  his  mind."  And 
yet  I  longed  to  know  of  the  life  within  this 
strange  husk  of  manhood. 

"  I  know,"  he  said,  as  if  reading  my  thought, 
"you  think"  —  and  he  tapped  his  forehead 
with  one  finger  —  "but  I'm  not.  I 'm  as 
sane  as  you  are." 

It  was  a  strange  story  he  told.  It  seems 
almost  unbelievable  to  me  as  I  set  it  down 
here,  until  I  reflect  how  little  any  one  of  us 
knows  of  the  deep  life  within  his  nearest 


CONTENTMENT  143 

neighbour  —  what  stories  there  are,  what 
tragedies  enacted  under  a  calm  exterior! 
What  a  drama  there  may  be  in  this  common 
place  man  buying  ten  pounds  of  sugar  at  the 
grocery  store,  or  this  other  one  driving  his 
two  old  horses  in  the  town  road!  We  do 
not  know.  And  how  rarely  are  the  men  of 
inner  adventure  articulate!  Therefore  I  treas 
ure  the  curious  story  the  tramp  told  me.  I 
do  not  question  its  truth.  It  came  as  all 
truth  does,  through  a  clouded  and  unclean 
medium:  and  any  judgment  of  the  story 
itself  must  be  based  upon  a  knowledge  of  the 
personal  equation  of  the  Ruin  who  told  it. 

"I  am  no  tramp,"  he  said,  "in  reality,  I 
am  no  tramp.  I  began  as  well  as  anyone  — 
It  doesn't  matter  now,  only  I  won't  have 
any  of  the  sympathy  that  people  give  to 
the  man  who  has  seen  better  days.  I  hate 
sentiment.  /  hate  it " 

I  cannot  attempt  to  set  down  the  story  in 
his  own  words.  It  was  broken  with  ex 
clamations  and  involved  with  wandering 
sophistries  and  diatribes  of  self-blame.  His 
mind  had  trampled  upon  itself  in  throes  of 
introspection  until  it  was  often  difficult  to 
say  which  way  the  paths  of  the  narrative 


144  ADVENTURES  IN 

really  led.  He  had  thought  so  much  and 
acted  so  little  that  he  travelled  in  a  veritable 
bog  of  indecision.  And  yet,  withal,  some 
ideas,  by  constant  attrition,  had  acquired  a 
really  striking  form.  "I  am  afraid  before 
life,"  he  said.  "It  makes  me  dizzy  with 
thought." 

At  another  time  he  said,  "  If  I  am  a  tramp 
at  all,  I  am  a  mental  tramp.  I  have  an 
unanchored  mind." 

It  seems  that  he  came  to  a  realisation  that 
there  was  something  peculiar  about  him  at 
a  very  early  age.  He  said  they  would  look 
at  him  and  whisper  to  one  another  and  that 
his  sayings  were  much  repeated,  often  in  his 
hearing.  He  knew  that  he  was  considered  an 
extraordinary  child:  they  baited  him  with 
questions  that  they  might  laugh  at  his 
quaint  replies.  He  said  that  as  early  as  he 
could  remember  he  used  to  plan  situations 
so  that  he  might  say  things  that  were  strange 
and  even  shocking  in  a  child.  His  father 
was  a  small  professor  in  a  small  college  —  a 
"worm"  he  called  him  bitterly — "one  of 
those  worms  that  bores  in  books  and  finally 
dries  up  and  blows  off."  But  his  mother  — 
he  said  she  was  an  angel.  I  recall  his  exact 


CONTENTMENT  145 

expression  about  her  eyes  that  "when  she 
looked  at  one  it  made  him  better."  He 
spoke  of  her  with  a  softening  of  the  voice, 
looking  often  at  Harriet.  He  talked  a  good 
deal  about  his  mother,  trying  to  account  for 
himself  through  her.  She  was  not  strong, 
he  said,  and  very  sensitive  to  the  contact  of 
either  friends  or  enemies  —  evidently  a  ner 
vous,  high-strung  woman. 

"You  have  known  such  people,"  he  said; 
"everything  hurt  her." 

He  said  she  "starved  to  death."  She 
starved  for  affection  and  understanding. 

One  of  the  first  things  he  recalled  of  his  boy 
hood  was  his  passionate  love  for  his  mother. 

"I  can  remember,"  he  said,  "lying  awake 
in  my  bed  and  thinking  how  I  would  love 
her  and  serve  her  —  and  I  could  see  myself 
in  all  sorts  of  impossible  places  saving  her 
from  danger.  When  she  came  to  my  room 
to  bid  me  good  night,  I  imagined  how  I  should 
look  —  for  I  have  always  been  able  to  see 
myself  doing  things  —  when  I  threw  my  arms 
around  her  neck  to  kiss  her." 

Here  he  reached  a  strange  part  of  his  story. 
I  had  been  watching  Harriet  out  of  the  corner 
of  my  eye.  At  first  her  face  was  tearful  with 


146  ADVENTURES  IN 

compassion,  but  as  the  Ruin  proceeded  it 
became  a  study  in  wonder  and  finally  in  out 
right  alarm.  He  said  that  when  his  mother 
came  in  to  bid  him  good  night  he  saw  himself 
so  plainly  beforehand  ("more  vividly  than  I 
see  you  at  this  moment'')  and  felt  his  emotion 
so  keenly  that  when  his  mother  actually 
stooped  to  kiss  him,  somehow  he  could  not 
respond.  He  could  not  throw  his  arms 
around  her  neck.  He  said  he  often  lay  quiet, 
in  waiting,  trembling  all  over  until  she  had 
gone,  not  only  suffering  himself  but  pitying 
her,  because  he  understood  how  she  must 
feel.  Then  he  would  follow  her,  he  said,  in 
imagination  through  the  long  hall,  seeing  him 
self  stealing  behind  her,  just  touching  her 
hand,  wistfully  hoping  that  she  might  turn  to 
him  again  —  and  yet  fearing.  He  said  no 
one  knew  the  agonies  he  suffered  at  seeing  his 
mother's  disappointment  over  his  apparent 
coldness  and  unresponsiveness. 

"  I  think,"  he  said,  "  it  hastened  her  death." 
He  would  not  go  to  the  funeral ;  he  did  not 
dare,  he  said.  He  cried  and  fought  when 
they  came  to  take  him  away,  and  when  the 
house  was  silent  he  ran  up  to  her  room  and 
buried  his  head  in  her  pillows  and  ran  in  swift 


CONTENTMENT  147 

imagination  to  her  funeral.  He  said  he 
could  see  himself  in  the  country  road,  hurry 
ing  in  the  cold  rain  —  for  it  seemed  raining 
-  he  said  he  could  actually  feel  the  stones 
and  ruts,  although  he  could  not  tell  how  it  was 
possible  that  he  should  have  seen  himself  at  a 
distance  and  felt  in  his  own  feet  the  stones  of 
the  road.  He  said  he  saw  the  box  taken  from 
the  wagon  —  saw  it  —  and  that  he  heard  the 
sound  of  the  clods  thrown  in,  and  it  made  him 
shriek  until  they  came  running  and  held  him. 

As  he  grew  older  he  said  he  came  to  live 
everything  beforehand,  and  that  the  event 
as  imagined  was  so  far  more  vivid  and  affect 
ing  that  he  had  no  heart  for  the  reality  itself. 

"  It  seems  strange  to  you,"  he  said, "but  I  am 
telling  you  exactly  what  my  experience  was." 

It  was  curious,  he  said,  when  his  father 
told  him  he  must  not  do  a  thing,  how  he  went 
on  and  imagined  in  how  many  different  ways 
he  could  do  it  —  and  how,  afterward,  he 
imagined  he  was  punished  by  that  "worm," 
his  father,  whom  he  seemed  to  hate  bitterly. 
Of  those  early  days,  in  which  he  suffered 
acutely  —  in  idleness,  apparently  —  and  per 
haps  that  was  one  of  the  causes  of  his  disorder 
—  he  told  us  at  length,  but  many  of  the 


148  ADVENTURES  IN 

incidents  were  so  evidently  worn  by  the 
constant  handling  of  his  mind  that  they 
gave  no  clear  impression. 

Finally,  he  ran  away  from  home,  he  said. 
At  first  he  found  that  a  wholly  new  place  and 
new  people  took  him  out  of  himself  ("sur 
prised  me,"  he  said,  "so  that  I  could  not  live 
everything  beforehand  ").  Thus  he  fled.  The 
slang  he  used,  "chased  himself  all  over  the 
country,"  seemed  peculiarly  expressive.  He 
had  been  in  foreign  countries;  he  had  herded 
sheep  in  Australia  (so  he  said),  and  certainly 
from  his  knowledge  of  the  country  he  had 
wandered  with  the  gamboleros  of  South 
America;  he  had  gone  for  gold  to  Alaska, 
and  worked  in  the  lumber  camps  of  the 
Pacific  Northwest.  But  he  could  not  escape, 
he  said.  In  a  short  time  he  was  no  longer 
"surprised."  His  account  of  his  travels, 
while  fragmentary,  had  a  peculiar  vividness. 
He  saw  what  he  described,  and  he  saw  it  so 
plainly  that  his  mind  ran  off  into  curious 
details  that  made  his  words  strike  some 
times  like  flashes  of  lightning.  A  strange  and 
wonderful  mind  —  uncontrolled.  How  that 
man  needed  the  discipline  of  common  work! 

I  have  rarely  listened  to  a  story  with  such 


CONTENTMENT  149 

rapt  interest.  It  was  not  only  what  he  said, 
nor  how  he  said  it,  but  how  he  let  me  see  the 
strange  workings  of  his  mind.  It  was  con 
tinuously  a  story  of  a  story.  When  his  voice 
finally  died  down  I  drew  a  long  breath  and 
was  astonished  to  perceive  that  it  was  nearly 
midnight  —  and  Harriet  speechless  with  her 
emotions.  For  a  moment  he  sat  quiet  and 
then  burst  out: 

"I  cannot  get  away:  I  cannot  escape," 
and  the  veritable  look  of  some  trapped  crea 
ture  came  into  his  eyes,  fear  so  abject  that  I 
reached  over  and  laid  my  hand  on  his  arm: 

"Friend,"  I  said,  "stop  here.  We  have  a 
good  country.  You  have  travelled  far  enough. 
I  know  from  experience  what  a  cornfield  will 
do  for  a  man." 

"  I  have  lived  all  sorts  of  life,"  he  continued 
as  if  he  had  not  heard  a  word  I  said,  "and  I 
have  lived  it  all  twice,  and  I  am  afraid." 

"Face  it,"  I  said,  gripping  his  arm,  longing 
for  some  power  to  "  blow  grit  into  him." 

"Face  it!"  he  exclaimed,  "don't  you  sup 
pose  I  have  tried.  If  I  could  do  a  thing  — 
anything  —  a  few  times  without  thinking  — 
otice  would  be  enough  —  I  might  be  all  right. 
I  should  be  all  right." 


150  ADVENTURES  IN 

He  brought  his  fist  down  on  the  table,  and 
there  was  a  note  of  resolution  in  his  voice. 
I  moved  my  chair  nearer  to  him,  feeling  as 
though  I  were  saving  an  immortal  soul  from 
destruction.  I  told  him  of  our  life,  how  the 
quiet  and  the  work  of  it  would  solve  his  prob 
lems.  I  sketched  with  enthusiasm  my  own 
experience  and  I  planned  swiftly  how  he  could 
live,  absorbed  in  simple  work  —  and  in  books. 

"Try  it,"  I  said  eagerly. 

"I  will,"  he  said,  rising  from  the  table, 
and  grasping  my  hand.  "  I  '11  stay  here.' 

I  had  a  peculiar  thrill  of  exultation  and 
triumph.  I  know  how  the  priest  must  feel, 
having  won  a  soul  from  torment ! 

He  was  trembling  with  excitement  and  pale 
with  emotion  and  weariness.  One  must  begin 
the  quiet  life  with  rest.  So  I  got  him  off  to 
bed,  first  pouring  him  a  bathtub  of  wrarm 
water.  I  laid  out  clean  clothes  by  his  bed 
side  and  took  away  his  old  ones,  talking  to 
him  cheerfnlly  all  the  time  about  common 
things.  When  I  finally  left  him  and  came 
downstairs  I  found  Harriet  standing  with 
frightened  eyes  in  the  middle  of  the  kitchen. 

"  I  'm  afraid  to  have  him  sleep  in  this 
house,"  she  said. 


CONTENTMENT 


But  I  reassured  her.  "  You  do  not  under 
stand,"  I  said. 

Owing  to  the  excitement  of  the  evening  I 
spent  a  restless  night.  Before  daylight,  while 
I  was  dreaming  a  strange  dream  of  two  men 
running,  the  one  who  pursued  being  the  exact 
counterpart  of  the  one  who  fled,  I  heard  my 
name  called  aloud: 

"David,  David!" 

I  sprang  out  of  bed. 

"The  tramp  has  gone,"  called  Harriet. 

He  had  not  even  slept  in  his  bed.  He  had 
raised  the  window,  dropped  out  on  the  ground 
and  vanished. 


X 

THE  INFIDEL 

I  FIND  that  we  have  an  infidel  in  this 
community.  I  don't  know  that  I  should 
set  down  the  fact  here  on  good  white  paper; 
the  walls,  they  say,  have  eyes,  the  stones 
have  ears.  But  consider  these  words  written 
in  bated  breath !  The  worst  of  it  is  —  I 
gather  from  common  report  —  this  infidel 
is  a  Cheerful  Infidel,  whereas  a  true  infidel 
should  bear  upon  his  face  the  living  mark  of 
his  infamy.  We  are  all  tolerant  enough  of 
those  who  do  not  agree  with  us,  provided 
only  they  are  sufficiently  miserable !  I  confess 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  153 

when  I  first  heard  of  him  —  through  Mrs. 
Horace  (with  shudders)  -  -  1  was  possessed  of  a 
consuming  secret  desire  to  see  him.  I  even 
thought  of  climbing  a  tree  somewhere  along 
the  public  road — like  Zaccheus,  wasn't  it? 
-  and  watching  him  go  by.  If  by  any 
chance  he  should  look  my  way  I  could  easily 
avoid  discovery  by  crouching  among  the 
leaves.  It  shows  how  pleasant  must  be  the 
paths  of  unrighteousness  that  we  are  tempted 
to  climb  trees  to  see  those  who  walk  therein. 
My  imagination  busied  itself  with  the  infidel. 
I  pictured  him  as  a  sort  of  Moloch  treading 
our  pleasant  countryside,  flames  and  smoke 
proceeding  from  his  nostrils,  his  feet  striking 
fire,  his  voice  like  the  sound  of  a  great  wind. 
At  least  that  was  the  picture  I  formed  of 
him  from  common  report. 

And  yesterday  afternoon  I  met  the  infidel 
and  I  must  here  set  down  a  true  account  of 
the  adventure.  It  is,  surely,  a  little  new 
door  opened  in  the  house  of  my  understand 
ing.  I  might  travel  a  whole  year  in  a  city, 
brushing  men's  elbows,  and  not  once  have 
such  an  experience.  In  country  spaces  men 
develop  sensitive  surfaces,  not  calloused  by 
too  frequent  contact,  accepting  the  new 


iS4  ADVENTURES  IN 

impression  vividly  and  keeping  it  bright  to 
think  upon. 

I  met  the  infidel  as  the  result  of  a  rather 
unexpected  series  of  incidents.  I  don't 
think  I  have  said  before  that  we  have  for 
some  time  been  expecting  a  great  event  on 
this  farm.  We  have  raised  corn  and  buck 
wheat,  we  have  a  fertile  asparagus  bed  and 
onions  and  pie-plant  (enough  to  supply  the 
entire  population  of  this  community)  and  I 
can't  tell  how  many  other  vegetables.  We 
have  had  plenty  of  chickens  hatched  out  (I 
don't  like  chickens,  especially  hens,  especially 
a  certain  gaunt  and  predatory  hen  named 
[so  Harriet  says]  Evangeline,  who  belongs 
to  a  neighbour  of  ours)  and  we  have  had  two 
litters  of  pigs,  but  until  this  bright  moment 
of  expectancy  we  never  have  had  a  calf. 

Upon  the  advice  of  Horace,  which  I  often 
lean  upon  as  upon  a  staff,  I  have  been  keep 
ing  my  young  heifer  shut  up  in  the  cow-yard 
now  for  a  week  or  two.  But  yesterday, 
toward  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  I  found 
the  fence  broken  down  and  the  cow-yard 
empty.  From  what  Harriet  said,  the  brown 
cow  must  have  been  gone  since  early  morning. 
I  knew,  of  course,  what  that  meant,  and 


CONTENTMENT  155 

straightway  I  took  a  stout  stick  and  set  off 
over  the  hill,  tracing  the  brown  cow  as  far  as 
I  could  by  her  tracks.  She  had  made  way 
toward  a  clump  of  trees  near  Horace's  wood 
lot,  where  I  confidently  expected  to  find  her. 
But  as  fate  would  have  it,  the  pasture  gate, 
which  is  rarely  used,  stood  open  and  the  tracks 
led  outward  into  an  old  road.  I  followed 
rapidly,  half  pleased  that  I  had  not  found 
her  within  the  wood.  It  was  a  promise  of 
new  adventure  which  I  came  to  with  down 
right  enjoyment  (confidentially  —  I  should 
have  been  cultivating  corn!).  I  peered  into 
every  thicket  as  I  passed:  once  I  climbed  an 
old  fence  and,  standing  on  the  top  rail,  in 
tently  surveyed  my  neighbour's  pasture.  No 
brown  cow  was  to  be  seen.  At  the  crossing 
of  the  brook  I  shouldered  my  way  from  the 
road  down  a  path  among  the  alders,  thinking 
the  brown  cow  might  have  gone  that  way  to 
obscurity. 

It  is  curious  how,  in  spite  of  domestication 
and  training,  Nature  in  her  great  moments 
returns  to  the  primitive  and  instinctive! 
My  brown  cow,  never  having  had  anything 
but  the  kindest  treatment,  is  as  gentle  an 
animal  as  could  be  imagined,  but  she  had 


156  ADVENTURES  IN 

followed  the  nameless,  ages-old  law  of  her 
breed:  she  had  escaped  in  her  great  moment 
to  the  most  secret  place  she  knew.  It  did  not; 
matter  that  she  would  have  been  safer  in  my 
yard  —  both  she  and  her  calf  —  that  she  would 
have  been  surer  of  her  food;  she  could  only 
obey  the  old  wild  law.  So  turkeys  will  hide 
their  nests.  So  the  tame  duck,  tame  for  un 
numbered  generations,  hearing  from  afar  the 
shrill  cry  of  the  wild  drake,  will  desert  her 
quiet  surroundings,  spread  her  little-used 
wings  and  become  for  a  time  the  wildest  of  the 
wild. 

So  we  think  —  you  and  I  —  that  we  are 
civilised!  But  how  often,  how  often,  have 
we  felt  that  old  wildness  which  is  our  com 
mon  heritage,  scarce  shackled,  clamouring  in 
our  blood! 

I  stood  listening  among  the  alders,  in  the 
deep  cool  shade.  Here  and  there  a  ray  of 
sunshine  came  through  the  thick  foliage:  I 
could  see  it  where  it  silvered  the  cobweb 
ladders  of  those  moist  spaces.  Somewhere 
in  the  thicket  I  heard  an  unalarmed  cat 
bird  trilling  her  exquisite  song,  a  startled 
frog  leaped  with  a  splash  into  the  water; 
faint  odours  of  some  blossoming  growth,  not 


CONTENTMENT  157 

distinguishable,  filled  the  still  air.  It  was  one 
of  those  rare  moments  when  one  seems  to 
have  caught  Nature  unaware.  I  lingered  a 
full  minute,  listening,  looking;  but  my  brown 
cow  had  not  gone  that  way.  So  I  turned  and 
went  up  rapidly  to  the  road,  and  there  I 
found  myself  almost  face  to  face  with  a  ruddy 
little  man  whose  countenance  bore  a  look 
of  round  astonishment.  We  were  both  sur 
prised.  I  recovered  first. 

"Have  you  seen  a  brown  cow?"  I  asked. 

He  was  still  so  astonished  that  he  began 
to  look  around  him;  he  thrust  his  hands  nerv 
ously  into  his  coat  pockets  and  pulled  them 
out  again. 

"I  think  you  won't  find  her  in  there,"  I 
said,  seeking  to  relieve  his  embarrassment. 

But  I  did  n't  know,  then,  how  very  serious 
a  person  I  had  encountered. 

"No  —  no,"  he  stammered,  "  I  have  n't  seen 
your  cow." 

So  I  explained  to  him  with  sobriety,  and 
at  some  length,  the  problem  I  had  to  solve. 
He  was  greatly  interested  and  inasmuch  as 
he  was  going  my  way  he  offered  at  once  to 
assist  me  in  my  search.  So  we  set  off  to 
gether.  He  was  rather  stocky  of  build,  and 


158  ADVENTURES  IN 

decidedly  short  of  breath,  so  that  I  regulated 
my  customary  stride  to  suit  his  deliberation. 
At  first,  being  filled  with  the  spirit  of  my 
adventure,  I  was  not  altogether  pleased  with 
this  arrangement.  Our  conversation  ran  some 
thing  like  this: 

STRANGER:  Has  she  any  spots  or  marks 
on  her? 

MYSELF:     No,  she  is  plain  brown. 

STRANGER:     How  old  a  cow  is  she? 

MYSELF:     This  is  her  first  calf. 

STRANGER:     Valuable  animal? 

MYSELF:  (fencing):  I  have  never  put  a 
price  on  her;  she  is  a  promising  young  heifer. 

STRANGER:     Pure  blood? 

MYSELF:     No,  grade. 

After  a  pause: 

STRANGER:     Live  around  here? 

MYSELF:  Yes,  half  a  mile  below  here. 
Do  you? 

STRANGER:  Yes,  three  miles  above  here. 
My  name  's  Purdy. 

MYSELF:     Mine  is  Grayson. 

He  turned  to  me  solemnly  and  held  out  his 
hand.  "I'm  glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Gray- 
son,"  he  said.  "And  I  'm  glad,"  I  said,  "to 
meet  you,  Mr.  Purdy." 


CONTENTMENT  159 

I  will  not  attempt  to  put  down  all  we  said: 
I  could  n't.  But  by  such  devices  is  the  truth 
in  the  country  made  manifest. 

So  we  continued  to  walk  and  look.  Oc 
casionally  I  would  unconsciously  increase 
my  pace  until  I  was  warned  to  desist  by  the 
puffing  of  Mr.  Purdy.  He  gave  an  essential 
impression  of  genial  timidity:  and  how  he 
did  love  to  talk! 

We  came  at  last  to  a  rough  bit  of  land 
grown  up  to  scrubby  oaks  and  hazel  brush. 

"This,"  said  Mr.' Purdy,  "looks  hopeful." 

We  followed  the  old  road,  examining  every 
bare  spot  of  earth  for  some  evidence  of  the 
cow's  tracks,  but  without  finding  so  much  as 
a  sign.  I  was  for  pushing  onward  but  Mr. 
Purdy  insisted  that  this  clump  of  woods  was 
exactly  such  a  place  as  a  cow  would  like.  He 
developed  such  a  capacity  for  argumentation 
and  seemed  so  sure  of  what  he  was  talking 
about  that  I  yielded,  and  we  entered  the 
wood. 

"We'll  part  here,"  he  said:  "you  keep 
over  there  about  fifty  yards  and  I  '11  go  straight 
ahead.  In  that  way  we  '11  cover  the  ground. 
Keep  a-shoutin'." 

So  we  started  and  I  kept  a-shoutin'.     He 


160  ADVENTURES  IN 

would  answer  from  time  to  time:  "Hulloo, 
hulloo!" 

It  was  a  wild  and  beautiful  bit  of  forest.  The 
ground  under  the  trees  was  thickly  covered 
with  enormous  ferns  or  bracken,  with  here 
and  there  patches  of  light  where  the  sun  came 
through  the  foliage.  The  low  spots  were 
filled  with  the  coarse  green  verdure  of  skunk 
cabbage.  I  was  so  sceptical  about  finding 
the  cow  in  a  wood  where  concealment  was  so 
easy  that  I  confess  I  rather  idled  and  enjoyed 
the  surroundings.  Suddenly,  however,  I 
heard  Mr.  Purdy's  voice,  with  a  new  note  in  it: 

"Hulloo,  hulloo-    -" 

"What  luck?" 

"Hulloo,  hulloo - 

"I  'm  coming  — "  and  I  turned  and  ran  as 
rapidly  as  I  could  through  the  trees,  jumping 
over  logs  and  dodging  low  branches,  wonder 
ing  what  new  thing  mywfriend  had  discovered. 
So  I  came  to  his  side. 

"Have  you  got  trace  of  her?"  I  questioned 
eagerly." 

"Sh!"  he  said,  "over  there.  Don't  you 
see  her?" 

"Where,  where?" 

He  pointed,  but  for  a  moment  I  could  see 


CONTENTMENT  161 

nothing  but  the  trees  and  the  bracken.  Then 
all  at  once,  like  the  puzzle  in  a  picture,  I  saw 
her  plainly.  She  was  standing  perfectly  mo 
tionless,  her  head  lowered,  and  in  such  a 
peculiar  clump  of  bushes  and  ferns  that  she 
was  all  but  indistinguishable.  It  was  won 
derful,  the  perfection  with  which  her  instinct 
had  led  her  to  conceal  herself. 

All  excitement,  I  started  toward  her  at 
once.  But  Mr.  Purdy  put  his  hand  on  my 
arm. 

"Wait,"  he  said,  "don't  frighten  her.  She 
has  her  calf  there." 

"No!"  I  exclaimed,  for  I  could  see  nothing 
of  it. 

We  went,  cautiously,  a  few  steps  nearer. 
She  threw  up  her  head  and  looked  at  us  so 
wildly  for  a  moment  that  I  should  hardly 
have  known  her  for  my  cow.  She  was,  in 
deed,  for  the  time  being,  a  wild  creature  of 
the  wood.  She  made  a  low  sound  and  ad 
vanced  a  step  threateningly. 

"Steady,"  said  Mr.  Purdy,  "this  is  her 
first  calf.  Stop  a  minute  and  keep  quiet. 
She  '11  soon  get  used  to  us." 

Moving  to  one  side  cautiously,  we  sat  down 
on  an  old  log.  The  brown  heifer  paused, 


i62  ADVENTURES  IN 

every  muscle  tense,  her  eyes  literally  blazing. 
We  sat  perfectly  still.  After  a  minute  or  two 
she  lowered  her  head,  and  with  curious  gut 
tural  sounds  she  began  to  lick  her  calf,  which 
lay  quite  hidden  in  the  bracken. 

"  She  has  chosen  a  perfect  spot,"  I  thought 
to  myself,  for  it  was  the  wildest  bit  of  forest 
I  had  seen  anywhere  in  this  neighbourhood. 
At  one  side,  not  far  off,  rose  a  huge  gray 
rock,  partly  covered  on  one  side  with  moss, 
and  round  about  were  oaks  and  a  few  ash 
trees  of  a  poor  scrubby  sort  (else  they  would 
long  ago  have  been  cut  out).  The  earth 
underneath  was  soft  and  springy  with  leaf 
mould. 

Mr.  Purdy  was  one  to  whom  silence  was 
painful;  he  fidgeted  about,  evidently  bursting 
with  talk,  and  yet  feeling  compelled  to  fol 
low  his  own  injunction  of  silence.  Presently 
he  reached  into  his  capacious  pocket  and 
handed  me  a  little  paper-covered  booklet. 
I  took  it,  curious,  and  read  the  title: 

"Is  There  a  Hell?" 

It  struck  me  humorously.  In  the  country 
we  are  always  —  at  least  some  of  us  are  — 
more  or  less  in  a  religious  ferment.  The  city 
may  distract  itself  to  the  point  where  faith  is 


CONTENTMENT  163 

unnecessary;  but  in  the  country  we  must, 
perforce,  have  something  to  believe  in.  And 
we  talk  about  it,  too!  I  read  the  title  aloud, 
but  in  a  low  voice: 

"Is  There  a  Hell?"  Then  I  asked:  "Do 
you  really  want  to  know?" 

"The  argument  is  all  there,"  he  replied. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "I  can  tell  you  off-hand, 
out  of  my  own  experience,  that  there  cer 
tainly  is  a  hell " 

He  turned  toward  me  with  evident  aston 
ishment,  but  I  proceeded  with  tranquillity: 

"  Yes,  sir,  there  's  no  doubt  about  it.  I  've 
been  near  enough  myself  several  times  to 
smell  the  smoke.  It  isn  't  around  here,"  I 
said. 

As  he  looked  at  me  his  china-blue  eyes 
grew  larger,  if  that  were  possible,  and  his 
serious,  gentle  face  took  on  a  look  of  pained 
surprise. 

"Before  you  say  such  things,"  he  said, 
"  I  beg  you  to  read  my  book." 

He  took  the  tract  from  my  hands  and 
opened  it  on  his  knee. 

"The  Bible  tells  us,"  he  said,  "that  in 
the  beginning  God  created  the  heavens  and 
the  earth,  He  made  the  firmament  and 


1 64  ADVENTURES  IN 

divided  the  waters.  But  does  the  Bible  say 
that  he  created  a  hell  or  a  devil  ?  Does  it  ? " 

I  shook  my  head. 

"Well,  then!"  he  said  triumphantly,  "and 
that  is  n't  all,  either.  The  historian  Moses 
gives  in  detail  a  full  account  of  what  was 
made  in  six  days.  He  tells  how  day  and 
night  were  created,  how  the  sun  and  the  moon 
and  the  stars  were  made;  he  tells  how  God 
created  the  flowers  of  the  field,  and  the  insects, 
and  the  birds,  and  the  great  whales,  and  said, 
'Be  fruitful  and  multiply.'  He  accounts  for 
every  minute  of  the  time  in  the  entire  six 
days  —  and  of  course  God  rested  on  the 
seventh  —  and  there  is  not  one  word  about 
hell.  Is  there?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"Well  then—"  exultantly,  "where  is  it? 
I  'd  like  to  have  any  man,  no  matter  how 
wise  he  is,  answer  that.  Where  is  it?" 

"That,"  I  said,  "has  troubled  me,  too. 
We  don't  always  know  just  where  our  hells 
are.  If  we  did  we  might  avoid  them.  We 
are  not  so  sensitive  to  them  as  we  should  be 
—  do  you  think?" 

He  looked  at  me  intently:  I  went  on 
before  he  could  answer : 


CONTENTMENT  165 

"Why,  I  've  seen  men  in  my  time  living 
from  day  to  day  in  the  very  atmosphere  of 
perpetual  torment,  and  actually  arguing  that 
there  was  no  hell.  It  is  a  strange  sight,  I 
assure  you,  and  one  that  will  trouble  you 
afterwards.  From  what  I  know  of  hell,  it  is 
a  place  of  very  loose  boundaries.  Sometimes 
I  Ve  thought  we  could  n't  be  quite  sure  when 
we  were  in  it  and  when  we  were  not." 

I  did  not  tell  my  friend,  but  I  was  think 
ing  of  the  remark  of  old  Swedenborg:  "The 
trouble  with  hell  is  we  shall  not  know  it  when 
we  arrive." 

At  this  point  Mr.  Purdy  burst  out  again, 
having  opened  his  little  book  at  another 
page. 

"When  Adam  and  Eve  had  sinned,"  he 
said,  "  and  the  God  of  Heaven  walked  in  the 
garden  in  the  cool  of  the  evening  and  called 
for  them  and  they  had  hidden  themselves 
on  account  of  their  disobedience,  did  God 
say  to  them:  Unless  you  repent  of  your  sins 
and  get  forgiveness  I  will  shut  you  up  in  yon 
dark  and  dismal  hell  and  torment  you  (or 
have  the  devil  do  it)  for  ever  and  ever?  Was 
there  such  a  word?" 

I  shook  my  head. 


1  He  reached  into  his  pocket  and  handed  me  a  little  paper-covered 
booklet" 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  167 

"No,  sir,"  he  said  venemently,  "there 
was  not." 

"But  does  it  say,"  I  asked,  "that  Adam 
and  Eve  had  not  themselves  been  using 
their  best  wits  in  creating  a  hell?  That 
point  has  occurred  to  me.  In  my  experi 
ence  I  've  known  both  Adams  and  Eves  who 
were  most  adroit  in  their  capacity  for  mak 
ing  places  of  torment  —  and  afterwards  of 
getting  into  them.  Just  watch  yourself  some 
day  after  you  've  sown  a  crop  of  desires  and 
you  11  see  promising  little  hells  starting  up 
within  you  like  pigweeds  and  pusley  after 
a  warm  rain  in  your  garden.  And  our 
heavens,  too,  for  that  matter  —  they  grow 
to  our  own  planting:  and  how  sensitive 
they  are  too!  How  soon  the  hot  wind  of  a 
passion  withers  them  away!  How  surely 
the  fires  of  selfishness  blacken  their  per 
fection!" 

I  'd  almost  forgotten  Mr.  Purdy  —  and 
when  I  looked  around,  his  face  wore  a  pe 
culiar  puzzled  expression  not  unmixed  with 
alarm.  He  held  up  his  little  book  eagerly, 
almost  in  my  face. 

"If  God  had  intended  to  create  a  hell," 
he  said,  "  I  assert  without  fear  of  successful 


168  ADVENTURES  IN 

contradiction  that  when  God  was  there  in 
the  Garden  of  Eden  it  was  the  time  for 
Him  to  have  put  Adam  and  Eve  and  all  their 
posterity  on  notice  that  there  was  a  place  of 
everlasting  torment.  It  would  have  been  only 
a  square  deal  for  Him  to  do  so.  But  did  He? " 

I  shook  my  head. 

"He  did  not.  If  He  had  mentioned  hell 
on  that  occasion  I  should  not  now  dispute 
its  existence.  But  He  did  not.  This  is 
what  He  said  to  Adam  —  the  very  words : 
'In  the  sweat  of  thy  face  shalt  thou  eat  bread, 
till  thou  return  unto  the  ground:  for  out  of 
it  thou  wast  taken:  for  dust  thou  art,  and 
unto  dust  shalt  thou  return.'  You  see  He 
did  not  say  'Unto  hell  shalt  thou  return.'  He 
said,  'Unto  dust.'  That  is  n't  hell,  is  it  ? " 

"Well,"  I  said,  "there  are  in  my  experi 
ence  a  great  many  different  kinds  of  hells. 
There  are  almost  as  many  kinds  of  hells  as 
there  are  men  and  women  upon  this  earth. 
Now,  your  hell  would  n't  terrify  me  in  the 
least.  My  own  makes  me  no  end  of  trouble. 
Talk  about  burning  pitch  and  brimstone: 
how  futile  were  the  imaginations  of  the  old 
fellows  who  conjured  up  such  puerile  tor 
ments.  Why,  I  can  tell  you  of  no  end  of 


CONTENTMENT  169 

hells  that  are  worse  —  and  not  half  try. 
Once  I  remember,  when  I  was  younger  - 

I  happened  to  glance  around  at  my  com 
panion.  He  sat  there  looking  at  me  with 
horror  —  fascinated  horror. 

"Well,  I  won't  disturb  your  peace  of  mind 
by  telling  that  story,"  I  said. 

"  Do  you  believe  that  we  shall  go  to  hell?" 
he  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"That  depends,"  I  said.  "Let's  leave 
out  the  question  of  'we' ;  let 's  be  more  com 
fortably  general  in  our  discussion.  I  think 
we  can  safely  say  that  some  go  and  some  do 
not.  It  's  a  curious  and  noteworthy  thing," 
I  said,  "but  I've  known  of  cases --There 
are  some  people  who  are  n't  really  worth 
good  honest  tormenting  —  let  alone  the  re 
wards  of  heavenly  bliss.  They  just  have  n't 
anything  to  torment!  What  is  going  to 
become  of  such  folks?  I  confess  I  don't 
know.  You  remember  when  Dante  began 
his  journey  into  the  infernal  regions 

"I  don't  believe  a  word  of  that  Dante," 
he  interrupted  excitedly;  "  it 's  all  a  made  up 
story.  There  is  n't  a  word  of  truth  in  it; 
it  is  a  blasphemous  book.  Let  me  read  you 
what  I  say  about  it  in  here." 


i7o  ADVENTURES  IN 

"I  will  agree  with  you  without  argument," 
I  said,  "that  it  is  not  all  true.  I  merely 
wanted  to  speak  of  one  of  Dante's  experi 
ences  as  an  illustration  of  the  point  I  'm  mak 
ing.  You  remember  that  almost  the  first 
spirits  he  met  on  his  journey  were  those 
who  had  never  done  anything  in  this  life 
to  merit  either  heaven  or  hell.  That  always 
struck  me  as  being  about  the  worst  plight 
imaginable  for  a  human  being.  Think  of  a 
creature  not  even  worth  good  honest 
brimstone!" 

Since  I  came  home,  I  've  looked  up  the 
passage;  and  it  is  a  wonderful  one.  Dante 
heard  wailings  and  groans  and  terrible  things 
said  in  many  tongues.  Yet  these  were  not 
the  souls  of  the  wicked.  They  were  only 
those  "who  had  lived  without  praise  or 
blame,  thinking  of  nothing  but  themselves." 
"Heaven  would  not  dull  its  brightness  with 
those,  nor  would  lower  hell  receive  them." 

"And  what  is  it,"  asked  Dante,  "  that  makes 
them  so  grievously  suffer?" 

"Hopelessness  of  death,"  said  Virgil. 
"Their  blind  existence  here,  and  imrnem- 
orable  former  life,  make  them  so  wretched 
that  they  envy  every  other  lot.  Mercy  and 


CONTENTMENT  171 

Justice  alike  disdain  them.  Let  us  speak 
of  them  no  more.  Look,  and  pass!" 

But  Mr.  Purdy,  in  spite  of  his  timidity, 
was  a  man  of  much  persistence. 

"They  tell  me,"  he  said,  "when  they  try 
to  prove  the  reasonableness  of  hell,  that 
unless  you  show  sinners  how  they  're  goin' 
to  be  tormented,  they  'd  never  repent.  Now, 
I  say  that  if  a  man  has  to  be  scared  into 
religion,  his  religion  ain't  much  good." 

"There,"  I  said,  "I  agree  with  you  com 
pletely." 

His  face  lighted  up,  and  he  continued 
eagerly: 

"And  I  tell  'em:  You  just  go  ahead  and 
try  for  heaven;  don't  pay  any  attention  to 
all  this  talk  about  everlasting  punishment." 

"Good  advice!"  I  said. 

It  had  begun  to  grow  dark.  The  brown 
cow  was  quiet  at  last.  We  could  hear  small 
faint  sounds  from  the  calf.  I  started  slowly 
through  the  bracken.  Mr.  Purdy  hung  at 
my  elbow,  stumbling  sideways  as  he  walked, 
but  continuing  to  talk  eagerly.  So  we  came 
to  the  place  where  the  calf  lay.  I  spoke  in  a 
low  voice: 

"So  boss,  so  boss." 


172  ADVENTURES  IN 

I  would  have  laid  my  hand  on  her  neck 
but  she  started  back  with  a  wild  toss  of  her 
horns.  It  was  a  beautiful  calf!  I  looked  at 
it  with  a  peculiar  feeling  of  exultation,  pride, 
ownership.  It  was  red-brown,  with  a  round 
curly  pate  and  one  white  leg.  As  it  lay  curled 
there  among  the  ferns,  it  was  really  beautiful 
to  look  at.  When  we  approached,  it  did  not 
so  much  as  stir.  I  lifted  it  to  its  legs,  upon 
which  the  cow  uttered  a  strange  half-wild  cry 
and  ran  a  few  steps  off,  her  head  thrown  in  the 
air.  The  calf  fell  back  as  though  it  had  no  legs. 

"She  is  telling  it  not  to  stand  up,"  said 
Mr.  Purdy. 

I  had  been  afraid  at  first  that  something 
was  the  matter! 

"Some  are  like  that,"  he  said.  "Some 
call  their  calves  to  run.  Others  won't  let 
you  come  near  'em  at  all;  and  I  've  even 
known  of  a  case  where  a  cow  gored  its  calf 
to  death  rather  than  let  anyone  touch  it." 

I  looked  at  Mr.  Purdy  not  without  a  feel 
ing  of  admiration.  This  was  a  thing  he 
knew:  a  language  not  taught  in  the  uni 
versities.  How  well  it  became  him  to  know 
it;  how  simply  he  expressed  it!  I  thought 
to  myself:  There  are  not  many  men  in  this 


CONTENTMENT  173 

world,  after  all,  that  it  will  not  pay  us  to  go 
to  school  to  —  for  something  or  other. 

I  should  never  have  been  able,  indeed,  to 
get  the  cow  and  calf  home,  last  night  at  least, 
if  it  had  not  been  for  my  chance  friend.  He 
knew  exactly  what  to  do  and  how  to  do  it. 
He  wore  a  stout  coat  of  denim,  rather  long 
in  the  skirts.  This  he  slipped  off,  while 
I  looked  on  in  some  astonishment,  and  spread 
it  out  on  the  ground.  He  placed  my  staff 
under  one  side  of  it  and  found  another  stick 
nearly  the  same  size  for  the  other  side.  These 
he  wound  into  the  coat  until  he  had  made  a 
sort  of  stretcher.  Upon  this  we  placed  the 
unresisting  calf.  What  a  fine  one  it  was! 
Then,  he  in  front  and  I  behind,  we  carried  the 
stretcher  and  its  burden  out  of  the  wood. 
The  cow  followed,  sometimes  threatening, 
sometimes  bellowing,  sometimes  starting  off 
wildly,  head  and  tail  in  the  air,  only  to  rush 
back  and,  venturing  up  with  trembling  mus 
cles,  touch  her  tongue  to  the  calf,  uttering 
low  maternal  sounds. 

"Keep  steady,"  said  Mr.  Purdy,  "and 
everything  11  be  all  right." 

When  we  came  to  the  brook  we  stopped 
to  rest.  I  think  my  companion  would  have 


i74  ADVENTURES  IN 

liked  to  start  his  argument  again,   but  he 
was  too  short  of  breath. 

It  was  a  prime  spring  evening!  The  frogs 
were  tuning  up.  I  heard  a  drowsy  cow 
bell  somewhere  over  the  hills  in  the  pasture. 
The  brown  cow,  with  eager,  outstretched 
neck,  was  licking  her  calf  as  it  lay  there  on 
the  improvised  stretcher.  I  looked  up  at 
the  sky,  a  blue  avenue  of  heaven  between 
the  tree  tops;  I  felt  the  peculiar  sense  of 
mystery  which  nature  so  commonly  conveys. 

"  I  have  been  too  sure!"  I  said.  "What  do 
we  know  after  all !  Why  may  there  not  be 
future  heavens  and  hells  —  'other  heavens 
for  other  earths '  ?  We  do  not  know  —  we 
do  not  know " 

So,  carrying  the  calf,  in  the  cool  of  the 
evening,  we  came  at  last  to  my  yard.  We 
had  no  sooner  put  the  calf  down  than  it 
jumped  nimbly  to  its  feet  and  ran,  wobbling 
absurdly,  to  meet  its  mother. 

"The  rascal,"  I  said,  "after  all  our  work." 

"It  's  the  nature  of  the  animal,"  said  Mr. 
Purdy,  as  he  put  on  his  coat. 

I  could  not  thank  him  enough.  I  invited 
him  to  stay  with  us  to  supper,  but  he  said 
he  must  hurry  home. 


CONTENTMENT  175 

"Then  come  down  soon  to  see  me,"  I  said, 
"and  we  will  settle  this  question  as  to  the 
existence  of  a  hell." 

He  stepped  up  close  to  me  and  said,  with 
an  appealing  note  in  his  voice: 

"You  do  not  really  believe  in  a  hell,  do 
you?" 

How  human  nature  loves  conclusiveness: 
nothing  short  of  the  categorical  will  satisfy 
us!  What  I  said  to  Mr.  Purdy  evidently 
appeased  him,  for  he  seized  my  hand  and 
shook  and  shook. 

"We  haven't  understood  each  other," 
he  said  eagerly.  "You  don't  believe  in 
eternal  damnation  any  more  than  I  do." 
Then  he  added,  as  though  some  new  un 
certainty  puzzled  him,  "Do  you?" 

At  supper  I  was  telling  Harriet  with 
gusto  of  my  experiences.  Suddenly  she 
broke  out: 

"  What  was  his  name?  " 

"Purdy." 

"Why,  he's  the  infidel  that  Mrs.  Horace 
tells  about!" 

"Is  that  possible?"  I  said,  and  I  dropped 
my  knife  and  fork.  The  strangest  sensation 
came  over  me. 


176  ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT 

"Why,"  I  said,  "then  I  'm  an  infidel  too!" 

So  I  laughed  and  I  've  been  laughing 
gloriously  ever  since  —  at  myself,  at  the  in 
fidel,  at  the  entire  neighbourhood.  I  recalled 
that  delightful  character  in  "The  Vicar  of 
Wakefield"  (my  friend  the  Scotch  Preacher 
loves  to  tell  about  him),  who  seasons  error 
by  crying  out  "Fudge!" 

"Fudge!"  I  said. 

We  're  all  poor  sinners! 


XI 

THE  COUNTRY  DOCTOR 

Sunday  afternoon,  June  g. 

WE  HAD  a  funeral  to-day  in  this  com 
munity  and  the  longest  funeral  pro 
cession,  Charles  Baxter  says,  he  has  seen  in 
all  the  years  of  his  memory  among  these  hills. 
A  good  man  has  gone  away  —  and  yet  re 
mains.  In  the  comparatively  short  time  I 
have  been  here  I  never  came  to  know  him  well 
personally,  though  I  saw  him  often  in  the 
country  roads,  a  ruddy  old  gentleman  with 
thick,  coarse,  iron-gray  hair,  somewhat  stern 

177 


178  ADVENTURES  IN 

of  countenance,  somewhat  shabby  of  attire, 
sitting  as  erect  as  a  trooper  in  his  open  buggy, 
one  muscular  hand  resting  on  his  knee,  the 
other  holding  the  reins  of  his  familiar  old 
white  horse.  I  said  I  did  not  come  to  know 
him  well  personally,  and  yet  no  one  who 
knows  this  community  can  help  knowing 
Doctor  John  North.  I  never  so  desired  the 
gift  of  moving  expression  as  I  do  at  this 
moment,  on  my  return  from  his  funeral,  that  I 
may  give  some  faint  idea  of  what  a  good 
man  means  to  a  community  like  ours  —  as 
the  more  complete  knowledge  of  it  has  come 
to  me  to-day. 

In  the  district  school  that  I  attended  when 
a  boy  we  used  to  love  to  leave  our  mark, 
as  we  called  it,  wherever  our  rovings  led  us. 
It  was  a  bit  of  boyish  mysticism,  unaccount 
able  now  that  we  have  grown  older  and  wiser 
(perhaps) ;  but  it  had  its  meaning.  It  was 
an  instinctive  outreaching  of  the  young  soul 
to  perpetuate  the  knowledge  of  its  existence 
upon  this  forgetful  earth.  My  mark,  I 
remember,  was  a  notch  and  a  cross.  With 
what  secret  fond  diligence  I  carved  it  in  the 
gray  bark  of  beech  trees,  on  fence  posts,  or 
on  barn  doors,  and  once,  I  remember,  on  the 


CONTENTMENT  179 

roof-ridge  of  our  home,  and  once,  with  high 
imaginings  of  how  long  it  would  remain,  I 
spent  hours  chiseling  it  deep  in  a  hard-headed 
old  boulder  in  the  pasture,  where,  if  man 
has  been  as  kind  as  Nature,  it  remains  to  this 
day.  If  you  should  chance  to  see  it  you 
would  not  know  of  the  boy  who  carved  it 
there. 

So  Doctor  North  left  his  secret  mark  upon 
the  neighbourhood  —  as  all  of  us  do,  for 
good  or  for  ill,  upon  our  neighbourhoods,  in 
accordance  with  the  strength  of  that  char 
acter  which  abides  within  us.  For  a  long 
time  I  did  not  know  that  it  was  he,  though 
it  was  not  difficult  to  see  that  some  strong 
good  man  had  often  passed  this  way.  I  saw 
the  mystic  sign  of  him  deep-lettered  in  the 
hearthstone  of  a  home;  I  heard  it  speaking 
bravely  from  the  weak  lips  of  a  friend ;  it  is 
carved  in  the  plastic  heart  of  many  a  boy. 
No,  I  do  not  doubt  the  immortalities  of  the 
soul ;  in  this  community,  which  I  have  come 
to  love  so  much,  dwells  more  than  one  of  John 
North's  immortalities  —  and  will  continue 
to  dwell.  I,  too,  live  more  deeply  because 
John  North  was  here. 

He  was  in  no  outward  way  an  extraordinary 


180  ADVENTURES  IN 

man,  nor  was  his  life  eventful.  He  was 
born  in  this  neighbourhood:  I  saw  him  lying 
quite  still  this  morning  in  the  same  sunny 
room  of  the  same  house  where  he  first  saw 
the  light  of  day.  Here  among  these  com 
mon  hills  he  grew  up,  and  save  for  the  few 
years  he  spent  at  school  or  in  the  army,  he 
lived  here  all  his  life  long.  In  old  neighbour 
hoods  and  especially  farm  neighbourhoods 
people  come  to  know  one  another  —  not 
clothes  knowledge,  or  money  knowledge  — 
but  that  sort  of  knowledge  which  reaches 
down  into  the  hidden  springs  of  human 
character.  A  country  community  may  be 
deceived  by  a  stranger,  too  easily  deceived, 
but  not  by  one  of  its  own  people.  For  it  is 
not  a  studied  knowledge;  it  resembles  that 
slow  geologic  uncovering  before  which  not 
even  the  deep  buried  bones  of  the  prehistoric 
saurian  remain  finally  hidden. 

I  never  fully  realised  until  this  morning 
what  a  supreme  triumph  it  is,  having  grown 
old,  to  merit  the  respect  of  those  who  know 
us  best.  Mere  greatness  offers  no  reward  to 
compare  with  it,  for  greatness  compels  that 
homage  which  we  freely  bestow  upon  good 
ness.  So  long  as  I  live  I  shall  never  forget  this 


CONTENTMENT  181 

morning.  I  stood  in  the  door-yard  outside 
of  the  open  window  of  the  old  doctor's  home. 
It  was  soft,  and  warm,  and  very  still  —  a 
June  Sunday  morning.  An  apple  tree  not 
far  off  was  still  in  blossom,  and  across  the 
road  on  a  grassy  hillside  sheep  fed  uncon 
cernedly.  Occasionally,  from  the  roadway 
where  the  horses  of  the  countryside  were 
waiting,  I  heard  the  clink  of  a  bit-ring  or  the 
low  voice  of  some  new-comer  seeking  a  place 
to  hitch.  Not  half  those  who  came  could 
find  room  in  the  house:  they  stood  uncovered 
among  the  trees.  From  within,  wafted 
through  the  window,  came  the  faint  odour 
of  flowers,  and  the  occasional  minor  into 
nation  of  someone  speaking  —  and  finally  our 
own  Scotch  Preacher!  I  could  not  see  him, 
but  there  lay  in  the  cadences  of  his  voice  a 
peculiar  note  of  peacefulness,  of  finality. 
The  day  before  he  died  Dr.  North  had  said : 

"I  want  McAlway  to  conduct  my  funeral, 
not  as  a  minister  but  as  a  man.  He  has  been 
my  friend  for  forty  years;  he  will  know 
what  I  mean." 

The  Scotch  Preacher  did  not  say  much. 
Why  should  he?  Everyone  there  knew: 
and  speech  would  only  have  cheapened  what 


1 82  ADVENTURES  IN 

we  knew.  And  I  do  not  now  recall  even  the 
little  he  said,  for  there  was  so  much  all  about 
me  that  spoke  not  of  the  death  of  a  good 
man,  but  of  his  life.  A  boy  who  stood  near 
me  —  a  boy  no  longer,  for  he  was  as  tall  as  a 
man  —  gave  a  more  eloquent  tribute  than 
any  preacher  could  have  done.  I  saw  him 
stand  his  ground  for  a  time  with  that  grim 
courage  of  youth  which  dreads  emotion  more 
than  a  battle:  and  then  I  saw  him  crying 
behind  a  tree!  He  was  not  a  relative  of  the 
old  doctor's;  he  was  only  one  of  many  into 
whose  deep  life  the  doctor  had  entered. 

They  sang  "Lead,  Kindly  Light,"  and 
came  out  through  the  narrow  doorway  into 
the  sunshine  with  the  coffin,  the  hats  of  the 
pall-bearers  in  a  row  on  top,  and  there  was 
hardly  a  dry  eye  among  us. 

And  as  they  came  out  through  the  narrow 
doorway,  I  thought  how  the  Doctor  must  have 
looked  out  daily  through  so  many,  many 
years  upon  this  beauty  of  hills  and  fields  and 
of  sky  above,  grown  dearer  from  long  famil 
iarity  —  which  he  would  know  no  more. 
And  Kate  North,  the  Doctor's  sister,  his  only 
relative,  followed  behind,  her  fine  old  face 
gray  and  set,  but  without  a  tear  in  her  eye. 


CONTENTMENT  183 

How  like  the  Doctor  she  looked:  the  same 
stern  control! 

In  the  hours  which  followed,  on  the  pleasant 
winding  way  to  the  cemetery,  in  the  groups 
under  the  trees,  on  the  way  homeward  again, 
the  community  spoke  its  true  heart,  and  I 
have  come  back  with  the  feeling  that  human, 
nature,  at  bottom,  is  sound  and  sweet.  I 
knew  a  great  deal  before  about  Doctor  North, 
but  I  knew  it  as  knowledge,  not  as  emotion, 
and  therefore  it  was  not  really  a  part  of  my 
life. 

I  heard  again  the  stories  of  how  he  drove 
the  country  roads,  winter  and  summer,  how 
he  had  seen  most  of  the  population  into  the 
world  and  had  held  the  hands  of  many  who 
went  out!  It  was  the  plain,  hard  life  of  a 
country  doctor,  and  yet  it  seemed  to  rise  in  our 
community  like  some  great  tree,  its  roots  deep 
buried  in  the  soil  of  our  common  life, 
its  branches  close  to  the  sky.  To  those 
accustomed  to  the  outward  excitements  of 
city  life  it  would  have  seemed  barren  and  un 
eventful.  It  was  significant  that  the  talk  was 
not  so  much  of  what  the  Doctor  did  as  of  how 
he  did  it,  not  so  much  of  his  actions  as  of  the 
natural  expression  of  his  character.  And 


1 84  ADVENTURES  IN 

when  we  come  to  think  of  it,  goodness  is 
uneventful.  It  does  not  flash,  it  glows.  It 
is  deep,  quiet  and  very  simple.  It  passes  not 
with  oratory,  it  is  commonly  foreign  to  riches, 
nor  does  it  often  sit  in  the  places  of  the  mighty : 
but  may  be  felt  in  the  touch  of  a  friendly  hand 
or  the  look  of  a  kindly  eye. 

Outwardly,  John  North  often  gave  the  im 
pression  of  brusqueness.  Many  a  woman, 
going  to  him  for  the  first  time,  and  until  she 
learned  that  he  was  in  reality  as  gentle  as  a 
girl,  was  frightened  by  his  manner.  The 
country  is  full  of  stories  of  such  encounters. 
We  laugh  yet  over  the  adventure  of  a  woman 
who  formerly  came  to  spend  her  summers 
here.  She  dressed  very  beautifully  and  was 
"nervous."  One  day  she  went  to  call  on  the 
Doctor.  He  made  a  careful  examination  and 
asked  many  questions.  Finally  he  said,  with 
portentous  solemnity: 

"Madam,  you're  suffering  from  a  very 
common  complairt." 

The  Doctor  paused,  then  continued,  im 
pressively  : 

"  You  have  n't  enough  work  to  do.  This 
is  what  I  would  advise.  Go  home,  discharge 
your  servants,  do  your  own  cooking,  wash 


CONTENTMENT  185 

your  own  clothes  and  make  your  own  beds. 
You  '11  get  well." 

She  is  reported  to  have  been  much  offended, 
and  yet  to-day  there  was  a  wreath  of  white 
roses  in  Doctor  North's  room  sent  from  the 
city  by  that  woman. 

If  he  really  hated  anything  in  this  world 
the  Doctor  hated  whimperers.  He  had  a  deep 
sense  of  the  purpose  and  need  of  punishment, 
and  he  despised  those  who  fled  from  whole 
some  discipline. 

A  young  fellow  once  went  to  the  Doctor  — 
so  they  tell  the  story  —  and  asked  for  some 
thing  to  stop  his  pain. 

"Stop  it!"  exclaimed  the  Doctor:  "why, 
it 's  good  for  you.  You  've  done  wrong, 
have  n't  you?  Well,  you  're  being  punished; 
take  it  like  a  man.  There  's  nothing  more 
wholesome  than  good  honest  pain." 

And  yet  how  much  pain  he  alleviated  in 
this  community  —  in  forty  years ! 

The  deep  sense  that  a  man  should  stand  up 
to  his  fate  was  one  of  the  key-notes  of  his 
character ;  and  the  way  he  taught  it,  not  only 
by  word  but  by  every  action  of  his  life,  put 
heart  into  many  a  weak  man  and  woman. 
Mrs.  Patterson,  a  friend  of  ours,  tells  of  a  reply 


x86  ADVENTURES  IN 

she  once  had  from  the  Doctor  to  whom  she 
had  gone  with  a  new  trouble.  After  telling 
him  about  it  she  said: 

"I  've  left  it  all  with  the  Lord." 

"  You  'd  have  done  better,"  said  the  Doctor, 
"to  keep  it  yourself.  Trouble  is  for  your 
discipline:  the  Lord  doesn't  need  it." 

It  was  thus  out  of  his  wisdom  that  he  was 
always  telling  people  what  they  knew,  deep 
down  in  their  hearts,  to  be  true.  It  some 
times  hurt  at  first,  but  sooner  or  later,  if  the 
man  had  a  spark  of  real  manhood  in  him,  he 
came  back,  and  gave  the  Doctor  an  abiding 
affection. 

There  were  those  who,  though  they  loved 
him,  called  him  intolerant.  I  never  could 
look  at  it  that  way.  He  did  have  the  only 
kind  of  intolerance  which  is  at  all  tolerable, 
and  that  is  the  intolerance  of  intolerance. 
He  always  set  himself  with  vigour  against  that 
unreason  and  lack  of  sympathy  which  are  the 
essence  of  intolerance;  and  yet  there  was  a 
rock  of  conviction  on  many  subjects  behind 
which  he  could  not  be  driven.  It  was  not 
intolerance:  it  was  with  him  a  reasoned  cer 
tainty  of  belief.  He  had  a  phrase  to  express 
that  not  uncommon  state  of  mind,  in  this  age 


CONTENTMENT  187 

particularly,  which  is  politely  willing  to  yield 
its  foothold  within  this  universe  to  almost  any 
reasoner  who  suggests  some  other  universe, 
however  shadowy,  to  stand  upon.  He  called 
it  a  "mush  of  concession."  He  might  have 
been  wrong  in  his  convictions,  but  he,  at  least,, 
never  floundered  in  a  "mush  of  concession." 
I  heard  him  say  once: 

"  There  are  some  things  a  man  can't  concede, 
and  one  is,  that  a  man  who  has  broken  a  law, 
like  a  man  who  has  broken  a  leg,  has  got  to 
suffer  for  it." 

It  was  only  with  the  greatest  difficulty  that 
he  could  be  prevailed  upon  to  present  a  bill. 
It  was  not  because  the  community  was  poor, 
though  some  of  our  people  are  poor,  and  it 
was  certainly  not  because  the  Doctor  was  rich 
and  could  afford  such  philanthropy,  for,  saving 
a  rather  unproductive  farm  which  during  the 
last  ten  years  of  his  life  lay  wholly  unculti 
vated,  he  was  as  poor  as  any  man  in  the 
community.  He  simply  seemed  to  forget  that 
people  owed  him. 

It  came  to  be  a  common  and  humorous 
experience  for  people  to  go  to  the  Doctor  and 
say: 

"Now  Doctor  North,  how  much  do  I  owe 


i88  ADVENTURES  IN 

you?     You  remember  you  attended  my  wife 
two  years  ago  when  the  baby  came  —  and 

John  when  he  had  the  diphtheria " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  I  remember." 
"I  thought  I  ought  to  pay  you." 
"  Well,  I  11  look  it  up  when  I  get  time." 
But  he  would  n't.     The  only  way  was  to 
go  to  him  and  say: 

"Doctor,  I  want  to  pay  ten  dollars  on 
account." 

"All  right,"  he'd  answer,  and  take  the 
money. 

To  the  credit  of  the  community  I  may  say 
with  truthfulness  that  the  Doctor  never  suf 
fered.  He  was  even  able  to  supply  himself 
with  the  best  instruments  that  money  could 
buy.  To  him  nothing  was  too  good  for  our 
neighbourhood.  This  morning  I  saw  in  a 
case  at  his  home  a  complete  set  of  oculist's 
instruments,  said  to  be  the  best  in  the  county 
—  a  very  unusual  equipment  for  a  country 
doctor.  Indeed,  he  assumed  that  the  respon 
sibility  for  the  health  of  the  community  rested 
upon  him.  He  was  a  sort  of  self -constituted 
health  officer.  He  was  always  sniffing  about 
for  old  wells  and  damp  cellars  —  and  some 
how,  with  his  crisp  humour  and  sound  sense. 


CONTENTMENT  189 

getting  them  cleaned.  In  his  old  age  he  even 
grew  querulously  particular  about  these 
things  -  -  asking  a  little  more  of  human 
nature  than  it  could  quite  accomplish.  There 
were  innumerable  other  ways  —  how  they 
came  out  to-day  all  glorified  now  that  he  is 
gone !  —  in  which  he  served  the  community. 

Horace  tells  how  he  once  met  the  Doctor 
driving  his  old  white  horse  in  the  town 
road. 

"Horace,"  called  the  Doctor,  "why  don't 
you  paint  your  barn?" 

"Well,"  said  Horace,  "it  is  beginning  to 
look  a  bit  shabby." 

"Horace,"  said  the  Doctor,  "you're  a 
prominent  citizen.  We  look  to  you  to  keep 
up  the  credit  of  the  neighbourhood." 

Horace  painted  his  barn. 

I  think  Doctor  North  was  fonder  of  Charles 
Baxter  than  of  anyone  else,  save  his  sister. 
He  hated  sham  and  cant:  if  a  man  had  a  single 
reality  in  him  the  old  Doctor  found  it;  and 
Charles  Baxter  in  many  ways  exceeds  any  man 
I  ever  knew  in  the  downright  quality  of  gen 
uineness.  The  Doctor  was  never  tired  of 
telling  —  and  with  humour  —  how  he  once 
went  to  Baxter  to  have  a  table  made  for  his 


i9o  ADVENTURES  IN 

office.  When  he  came  to  get  it  he  found  the 
table  upside  down  and  Baxter  on  his  knees 
finishing  off  the  under  part  of  the  drawer 
slides.  Baxter  looked  up  and  smiled  in  the 
engaging  way  he  has,  and  continued  his  work. 
After  watching  him  for  some  time  the  Doctor 
said: 

"  Baxter,  why  do  you  spend  so  much  time 
on  that  table?  Who  's  going  to  know  whether 
or  not  the  last  touch  has  been  put  on  the  under 
side  of  it?" 

Baxter  straightened  up  and  looked  at  the 
Doctor  in  surprise. 

"Why,  I  will,  "he  said. 

How  the  Doctor  loved  to  tell  that  story!  I 
warrant  there  is  no  boy  who  ever  grew  up  in 
this  country  who  has  n't  heard  it. 

It  was  a  part  of  his  pride  in  finding  reality 
that  made  the  Doctor  such  a  lover  of  true 
sentiment  and  such  a  hater  of  sentimentality. 
I  prize  one  memory  of  him  which  illustrates 
this  point.  The  district  school  gave  a  "  speak 
ing"  and  we  all  went.  One  boy  with  a  fresh 
young  voice  spoke  a  "soldier  piece" — the 
soliloquy  of  a  one-armed  veteran  who  sits  at 
SL  window  and  sees  the  troops  go  by  with  danc 
ing  banners  and  glittering  bayonets,  and  the 


CONTENTMENT  191 

people  cheering  and  shouting.     And  the  re 
frain  went  something  like  this : 

"Never  again  call  'Comrade' 

To  the  men  who  were  comrades  for  years; 
Never  again  call '  Brother' 
To  the  men  we  think  of  with  tears. " 

I  happened  to  look  around  while  the  boy 
was  speaking,  and  there  sat  the  old  Doctor 
with  the  tears  rolling  unheeded  clown  his  ruddy 
face;  he  was  thinking,  no  doubt,  of  his  war 
time  and  the  comrades  he  knew. 

On  the  other  hand,  how  he  despised  fustian 
and  bombast.  His  "Bah!"  delivered  explo 
sively,  was  often  like  a  breath  of  fresh  air  in 
a  stuffy  room.  Several  years  ago,  before  I 
came  here  —  and  it  is  one  of  the  historic  stories 
of  the  county  —  there  was  a  semi-political 
Fourth  of  July  celebration  with  a  number  of 
ambitious  orators.  One  of  them,  a  young 
fellow  of  small  worth  who  wanted  to  be  elected 
to  the  legislature,  made  an  impassioned  ad 
dress  on  "  Patriotism."  The  Doctor  was  pres 
ent,  for  he  liked  gatherings:  he  liked  people. 
But  he  did  not  like  the  young  orator,  and  did 
not  want  him  to  be  elected.  In  the  midst  of 
the  speech,  while  the  audience  was  being 


192  ADVENTURES  IN 

carried  through  the  clouds  of  oratory,  the 
Doctor  was  seen  to  be  growing  more  and  more 
uneasy.  Finally  he  burst  out: 

"Bah!" 

The  orator  caught  himself,  and  then  swept 
on  again. 

"Bah!"  said  the  Doctor. 

By  this  time  the  audience  was  really  in 
terested.  The  orator  stopped.  He  knew  the 
Doctor,  and  he  should  have  known  better  than 
to  say  what  he  did.  But  he  was  very  young 
and  he  knew  the  Doctor  was  opposing  him. 

"Perhaps,"  he  remarked  sarcastically,  "the 
Doctor  can  make  a  better  speech  than  I  can." 

The  Doctor  rose  instantly,  to  his  full  height 

—  and  he  was  an  impressive-looking  man. 
"Perhaps,"  he  said,   "I  can,  and  what  is 

more,  I  will. ' '  He  stood  up  on  a  chair  and  gave 
them  a  talk  on  Patriotism  —  real  patriotism 

—  the  patriotism  of  duty  done  in  the   small 
concerns  of  life.     That  speech,  which  ended 
the  political  career  of  the  orator,  is  not  for 
gotten  to-day. 

One  thing  I  heard  to-day  about  the  old 
Doctor  impressed  me  deeply.  I  have  been 
thinking  about  it  ever  since:  it  illuminates 
his  character  more  than  anything  I  have 


CONTENTMENT  193 

heard.  It  is  singular,  too,  that  I  should  not 
have  known  the  story  before.  I  don't  believe 
it  was  because  it  all  happened  so  long  ago ;  it 
rather  remained  untold  out  of  deference  to  a 
sort  of  neighbourhood  delicacy. 

I  had,  indeed,  wondered  why  a  man  of 
such  capacities,  so  many  qualities  of  real 
greatness  and  power,  should  have  escaped  a 
city  career.  I  said  something  to  this  effect 
to  a  group  of  men  with  whom  I  was  talking 
this  morning.  \  thought  they  exchanged 
glances;  one  said: 

"  When  he  first  came  out  of  the  army  he  'd 
made  such  a  fine  record  as  a  surgeon  that 
everyone  urged  him  to  go  to  the  city  and 
practice ' ' 

A  pause  followed  which  no  one  seemed 
inclined  to  fill. 

"  But  he  did  n't  go,"  I  said. 

"No,  he  didn't  go.  He  was  a  brilliant 
young  fellow.  He  knew  a  lot,  and  he  was 
popular,  too.  He  'd  have  had  a  great 
success " 

Another  pause. 

"  But  he  did  n't  go  ? "     I  asked  promptingly. 

"No;  he  staid  here.  He  was  better  edu 
cated  than  any  man  in  this  county.  Why, 


i94  ADVENTURES  IN 

I  've  seen  him  more  'n  once  pick  up  a  book  of 
Latin  and  read  it  for  pleasure." 

I  could  see  that  all  this  was  purposely 
irrelevant,  and  I  liked  them  for  it.  But  walk 
ing  home  from  the  cemetery  Horace  gave  me 
the  story;  the  community  knew  it  to  the  last 
detail.  I  suppose  it  is  a  story  not  uncommon 
among  men,  but  this  morning,  told  of  the  old 
Doctor  we  had  just  laid  away,  it  struck  me 
with  a  tragic  poignancy  difficult  to  describe. 

"Yes,"  said  Horace,  "he  was  to  have  been 
married,  forty  years  ago,  and  the  match  was 
broken  off  because  he  was  a  drunkard." 

"A  drunkard  I"  I  exclaimed,  with  a  shock 
I  cannot  convey. 

"Yes,  sir./'  said  Horace,  "one  o'  the  worst 
you  ever  see.  He  got  it  in  the  army.  Hand 
some,  wild,  brilliant  —  that  was  the  Doctor. 
I  was  a  little  boy  but  I  remember  it  mighty 
well." 

He  told  me  the  whole  distressing  story.  It 
was  all  a  long  time  ago  and  the  details  do  not 
matter  now.  It  was  to  be  expected  that  a 
man  like  the  old  Doctor  should  love,  love 
once,  and  love  as  few  men  do.  And  that  is 
what  he  did  —  and  the  girl  left  him  because 
he  was  a  drunkard ! 


CONTENTMENT  195 

"They  all  thought,"  said  Horace,  "that 
he  'd  up  an'  kill  himself.  He  said  he  would, 
but  he  did  n't.  Instid  o'  that  he  put  an  open 
bottle  on  his  table  and  he  looked  at  it  and 
said:  'Which  is  stronger,  now,  you  or  John 
North?  We  '11  make  that  the  test,'  he  said, 
'we'll  live  or  die  by  that.'  Them  was  his 
exact  words.  He  could  n't  sleep  nights  and 
he  got  haggard  like  a  sick  man,  but  he  left 
the  bottle  there  and  never  touched  it." 

How  my  heart  throbbed  with  the  thought 
of.  that  old  silent  struggle!  How  much  it 
explained ;  how  near  it  brought  all  these  peo 
ple  around  him !  It  made  him  so  human.  It 
is  the  tragic  necessity  (but  the  salvation)  of 
many  a  man  that  he  should  come  finally  to  an 
irretrievable  experience,  to  the  assurance  that 
everything  is  lost.  For  with  that  moment, 
if  he  be  strong,  he  is  saved.  I  wonder  if  any 
one  ever  attains  real  human  sympathy  who 
has  not  passed  through  the  fire  of  some  such 
experience.  Or  to  humour  either!  For  in 
the  best  laughter  do  we  not  hear  constantly 
that  deep  minor  note  which  speaks  of  the 
ache  in  the  human  heart?  It  seems  to  me  I 
can  understand  Doctor  North! 

He  died   Friday  morning.     He  had  been 


196  ADVENTURES  IN 

lying  very  quiet  all  night ;  suddenly  he  opened 
his  eyes  and  said  to  his  sister:  "Good-bye, 
Kate,"  and  shut  them  again.  That  was  all. 
The  last  call  had  come  and  he  was  ready  for  it. 
I  looked  at  his  face  after  death.  I  saw  the 
iron  lines  of  that  old  struggle  in  his  mouth 
and  chin ;  and  the  humour  that  it  brought  him 
in  the  lines  around  his  deep-set  eyes. 

And  as  I  think  of  him  this  afternoon.,  I 

can  see  him  —  curiously,  for  I  can  hardly  ex 
plain  it  —  carrying  a  banner  as  in  battle  right 
here  among  our  quiet  hills.  And  those  he 
leads  seem  to  be  the  people  we  know,  the  men, 
and  the  women,  and  the  boys!  He  is  the 
hero  of  a  new  age.  In  olden  days  he  might 
have  been  a  pioneer,  carrying  the  light  of 
civilisation  to  a  new  land ;  here  he  has  been  a 
sort  of  moral  pioneer  —  a  pioneering  far  more 
difficult  than  any  we  have  ever  known.  There 
are  no  heroics  connected  with  it,  the  name  of 
the  pioneer  will  not  go  ringing  down  the  ages ; 
for  it  is  a  silent  leadership  and  its  success  is 
measured  by  victories  in  other  lives.  We  see 
it  now,  only  too  dimly,  when  he  is  gone.  We 
reflect  sadly  that  we  did  not  stop  to  thank 
him.  How  busy  we  were  with  our  own  affairs 
when  he  was  among  us!  I  wonder  is  there 


CONTENTMENT 


197 


anyone  here  to  take  up  the  banner  he  has  laid 
down! 

1  forgot  to  say  that  the  Scotch  Preacher 

chose  the  most  impressive  text  in  the  Bible  for 
his  talk  at  the  funeral: 

"  He  that  is  greatest  among  you,  let  him  be  .  .  . 
as  he  that  doth  serve." 

And  we  came  away  with  a  nameless,  ach 
ing  sense  of  loss,  thinking  how,  perhaps,  in  a 
small  way,  we  might  do  something  for  some 
body  else  —  as  the  old  Doctor  did. 


XII 

AN  EVENING  AT  HOME 

1  How  calm  and  quiet  a  delight 

Is  it,  alone, 
To  read  and  meditate  and  write, 

By  none  offende'd,  and  offending  none? 
To  walk,  ride,  sit  or  sleep  at  one's  own  ease ; 

And,  pleasing  a  man's  self,  none  other  to  displease." 
—Charles  Cotton,  a  friend  of  Izaak  Walton,  1650 


DURING  the  last  few  months  so  many  of 
the  real  adventures  of  life  have  been 
out  of  doors  and  so  much  of  the  beauty,  too, 

that  I  have  scarcely  written  a  word  about  my 

198 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT   199 

books.  In  the  summer  the  days  are  so  long 
and  the  work  so  engrossing  that  a  farmer  is 
quite  willing  to  sit  quietly  on  his  porch  after 
supper  and  watch  the  long  evenings  fall  — 
and  rest  his  tired  back,  and  go  to  bed  early. 
But  the  winter  is  the  true  time  for  indoor 
enjoyment ! 

Days  like  these!  A  cold  night  after  a  cold 
day!  Well  wrapped,  you  have  made  arctic 
explorations  to  the  stable,  the  chicken-yard 
and  the  pig-pen;  you  have  dug  your  way 
energetically  to  the  front  gate,  stopping  every 
few  minutes  to  beat  your  arms  around  your 
shoulders  and  watch  the  white  plume  of  your 
breath  in  the  still  air  —  and  you  have  rushed 
in  gladly  to  the  warmth  of  the  dining-room  and 
the  lamp-lit  supper.  After  such  a  day  how 
sharp  your  appetite,  how  good  the  taste  of 
food!  Harriet's  brown  bread  (moist,  with 
thick,  sweet,  dark  crusts)  was  never  quite  so 
delicious,  and  when  the  meal  is  finished  you 
push  back  your  chair  feeling  like  a  sort  of 
lord. 

"That  was  a  good  supper,  Harriet,"  you 
say  expansively. 

"Was  it?"  she  asks  modestly,  but  with 
evident  pleasure. 


200  ADVENTURES  IN 

"Cookery,"  you  remark,  "is  the  greatest 
art  in  the  world ' 

"Oh,  you  were  hungry!" 

"Next  to  poetry,"  you  conclude,  "and 
much  better  appreciated.  Think  how  easy 
it  is  to  find  a  poet  who  will  turn  you  a  pre 
sentable  sonnet,  and  how  very  difficult  it  is  to 
find  a  cook  who  will  turn  you  an  edible  beef 
steak  " 

I  said  a  good  deal  more  on  this  subject 
which  I  shall  not  attempt  to  repeat.  Har 
riet  did  not  listen  through  it  all.  She  knows 
what  I  am  capable  of  when  I  really  get  started ; 
and  she  has  her  well-defined  limits.  A  prac 
tical  person,  Harriet!  When  I  have  gone 
about  so  far,  she  begins  clearing  the  table  or 
takes  up  her  mending  —  but  I  don't  mind  it 
at  all.  Having  begun  talking,  it  is  wonder 
ful  how  pleasant  one's  own  voice  becomes. 
And  think  of  having  a  clear  field  —  and  no 
interruptions ! 

My  own  particular  room,  where  I  am  per 
mitted  to  revel  in  the  desert  of  my  own  dis 
order,  opens  comfortably  off  the  sitting- 
room.  A  lamp  with  a  green  shade  stands 
invitingly  on  the  table  shedding  a  circle  of 
light  on  the  books  and  papers  underneath. 


CONTENTMENT  201 

but  leaving  all  the  remainder  of  the  room  in 
dim  pleasantness.  At  one  side  stands  a  com 
fortable  big  chair  with  everything  in  arm's 
reach,  including  my  note  books  and  ink  bottle. 
Where  I  sit  I  can  look  out  through  the  open 
doorway  and  see  Harriet  near  the  fireplace 
rocking  and  sewing.  Sometimes  she  hums 
a  little  tune  which  I  never  confess  to  hearing, 
lest  I  miss  some  of  the  unconscious  cadences. 
Let  the  wind  blow  outside  and  the  snow  drift 
in  piles  around  the  doorway  and  the  blinds 
rattle  —  I  have  before  me  a  whole  long  pleas 
ant  evening. 

What  a  convenient  and  delightful  world 
is  this  world  of  books !  —  if  you  bring  to  it 
not  the  obligations  of  the  student,  or  look 
upon  it  as  an  opiate  for  idleness,  but  enter 
it  rather  with  the  enthusiasm  of  the  adven 
turer!  It  has  vast  advantages  over  the  ordi 
nary  world  of  daylight,  of  barter  and  trade, 
of  work  and  worry.  In  this  world  every 
man  is  his  own  King  —  the  sort  of  King  one 
loves  to  imagine,  not  concerned  in  such  petty 
matters  as  wars  and  parliaments  and  taxes, 
but  a  mellow  and  moderate  despot  who  is  a 
true  patron  of  genius  —  a  mild  old  chap  who 


202  ADVENTURES  IN 

has  in  his  court  the  greatest  men  and  women 
in  the  world  —  and  all  of  them  vying  to 
please  the  most  vagrant  of  his  moods!  In 
vite  any  one  of  them  to  talk,  and  if  your 
highness  is  not  pleased  with  him  you  have 
only  to  put  him  back  in  his  corner  —  and 
bring  some  jester  to  sharpen  the  laughter  of 
your  highness,  or  some  poet  to  set  your 
faintest  emotion  to  music! 

I  have  marked  a  certain  servility  in  books. 
They  entreat  you  for  a  hearing:  they  cry  out 
from  their  cases  —  like  men,  in  an  eternal 
struggle  for  survival,  for  immortality. 

"Take  me,"  pleads  this  one,  "I  am  re 
sponsive  to  every  mood.  You  will  find  in 
me  love  and  hate,  virtue  and  vice.  I  don't 
preach:  I  give  you  life  as  it  is.  You  will 
find  here  adventures  cunningly  linked  with 
romance  and  seasoned  to  suit  the  most 
fastidious  taste.  Try  me." 

"Hear  such  talk!"  cries  his  neighbour. 
"  He 's  fiction.  What  he  says  never  hap 
pened  at  all.  He  tries  hard  to  make  you 
believe  it,  but  it  is  n't  true,  not  a  word  of  it. 
Now,  I  'm  fact.  Everything  you  find  in  me 
can  be  depended  upon." 

"Yes,"    responds    the    other,    "but    who 


CONTENTMENT  203 

cares!  Nobody  wants  to  read  you,  you  're 
dull." 

"You 're  false!" 

As  their  voices  grow  shriller  with  argu 
ment  your  highness  listens  with  the  indul 
gent  smile  of  royalty  when  its  courtiers  con 
tend  for  its  favour,  knowing  that  their  very 
life  depends  upon  a  wrinkle  in  your  august 
brow. 

As  for  me  I  confess  to  being  a  rather  crusty 
despot.  When  Horace  was  over  here  the 
other  evening  talking  learnedly  about  silos 
and  ensilage  I  admit  that  I  became  the  very 
pattern  of  humility,  but  when  I  take  my 
place  in  the  throne  of  my  arm-chair  with 
the  light  from  the  green-shaded  lamp  falling 
on  the  open  pages  of  my  book,  I  assure  you 
I  am  decidedly  an  autocratic  person.  My 
retainers  must  distinctly  keep  their  places! 
I  have  my  court  favourites  upon  whom  I 
lavish  the  richest  gifts  of  my  attention. 
I  reserve  for  them  a  special  place  in  the 
worn  case  nearest  my  person,  where  at  the 
mere  outreaching  of  an  idle  hand  I  can 
summon  them  to  beguile  my  moods.  The 
necessary  slavies  of  literature  I  have  arranged 


204  ADVENTURES  IN 

in  indistinct  rows  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
room  where  they  can  be  had  if  I  require 
their  special  accomplishments. 

How  little,  after  all,  learning  counts  in 
this  world  either  in  books  or  in  men.  I  have 
often  been  awed  by  the  wealth  of  information 
I  have  discovered  in  a  man  or  a  book :  I  have 
been  awed  and  depressed.  How  wonderful, 
I  have  thought,  that  one  brain  should  hold  so 
much,  should  be  so  infallible  in  a  world  of 
fallibility.  But  I  have  observed  how  soon 
and  completely  such  a  fount  of  information 
dissipates  itself.  Having  only  things  to  give, 
it  comes  finally  to  the  end  of  its  things:  it  is 
empty.  What  it  has  hived  up  so  painfully 
through  many  a  studious  year  comes  now  to 
be  common  property.  We  pass  that  way, 
take  our  share,  and  do  not  even  say  "Thank 
you."  Learning  is  like  money;  it  is  of  pro 
digious  satisfaction  to  the  possessor  thereof, 
but  once  given  forth  it  diffuses  itself  swiftly. 

"What  have  you?"  we  are  ever  asking 
of  those  we  meet.  "Information,  learning, 
money?" 

We  take  it  cruelly  and  pass  onward,  for 
such  is  the  law  of  material  possessions. 


CONTENTMENT  205 

"What  have  you?"  we  ask.  "Charm, 
personality,  character,  the  great  gift  of  unex 
pectedness?" 

How  we  draw  you  to  us!  We  take  you  in. 
Poor  or  ignorant  though  you  may  be,  we 
link  arms  and  loiter;  we  love  you  not  for 
what  you  have  or  what  you  give  us,  but  for 
what  you  are. 

I  have  several  good  friends  (excellent  peo 
ple)  who  act  always  as  I  expect  them  to  act. 
There  is  no  flight!  More  than  once  I  have 
listened  to  the  edifying  conversation  of  a 
certain  sturdy  old  gentleman  whom  I  know, 
and  I  am  ashamed  to  say  that  I  have  thought : 

"Lord!  if  he  would  jump  up  now  and  turn 
an  intellectual  handspring,  or  slap  me  on 
the  back  (figuratively,  of  course:  the  other 
would  be  unthinkable) ,  or  —  yes,  swear !  I  — 
think  I  could  love  him." 

But  he  never  does  —  and  I  'm  afraid  he 
never  will! 

When  I  speak  then  of  my  books  you  will 
know  what  I  mean.  The  chief  charm  of 
literature,  old  or  new,  lies  in  its  high  quality 
of  surprise,  unexpectedness,  spontaneity:  high 
spirits  applied  to  life.  We  can  fairly  hear 
some  of  the  old  chaps  you  and  I  know  laughing 


206  ADVENTURES  IN 

down  through  the  centuries.  How  we  love  'em ! 
They  laughed  for  themselves,  not  for  us! 

Yes,  there  must  be  surprise  in  the  books 
that  I  keep  in  the  worn  case  at  my  elbow, 
the  surprise  of  a  new  personality  perceiving 
for  the  first  time  the  beauty,  the  wonder, 
the  humour,  the  tragedy,  the  greatness  of 
truth.  It  does  n't  matter  at  all  whether  the 
writer  is  a  poet,  a  scientist,  a  traveller,  an 
essayist  or  a  mere  daily  space-maker,  if  he 
have  the  God-given  grace  of  wonder. 

"What  on  earth  are  you  laughing  about?" 
cries  Harriet  from  the  sitting-room. 

When  I  have  caught  my  breath,  I  say, 
holding  up  my  book: 

"This  absurd  man  here  is  telling  of  the 
adventures  of  a  certain  chivalrous  Knight." 

"But  I  can't  see  how  you  can  laugh  out 
like  that,  sitting  all  alone  there.  Why,  it  's 
uncanny." 

"You  don't  know  the  Knight,  Harriet, 
nor  his  squire  Sancho." 

"You  talk  of  them  just  as  though  they 
were  real  persons." 

"Real!"  I  exclaim,  "real!  Why  they  are 
much  more  real  than  most  of  the  people  we 


CONTENTMENT  207 

know.  Horace  is  a  mere  wraith  compared 
with  Sancho." 

And  then  I  rush  out. 

"Let  me  read  you  this,"  I  say,  and  I  read 
that  matchless  chapter  wherein  the  Knight, 
having  clapped  on  his  head  the  helmet  which 
Sancho  has  inadvertently  used  as  a  recep 
tacle  for  a  dinner  of  curds  and,  sweating 
whey  profusely,  goes  forth  to  fight  two 
fierce  lions.  As  I  proceed  with  that  pro 
digious  story,  I  can  see  Harriet  gradually 
forgetting  her  sewing,  and  I  read  on  the  more 
furiously  until,  coming  to  the  point  of  the 
conflict  wherein  the  generous  and  gentle  lion, 
having  yawned,  "threw  out  some  half  yard  of 
tongue  wherewith  he  licked  and  washed  his 
face,"  Harriet  begins  to  laugh. 

"There!"  I  say  triumphantly. 

Harriet  looks  at  me  accusingly. 

"  Such  foolishness ! "  she  says.  "  Why  should 
any  man  in  his  senses  try  to  fight  caged  lions ! " 

"Harriet,"  I  say,  "you  are  incorrigible." 

She  does  not  deign  to  reply,  so  I  return 
with  meekness  to  my  room. 

The  most  distressing  thing  about  the  ordi 
nary  fact  writer  is  his  cock-sureness.  Why, 


208  ADVENTURES  IN 

here  is  a  man  (I  have  not  yet  dropped  him 
out  of  the  window)  who  has  written  a  large 
and  sober  book  explaining  life.  And  do 
you  know  when  he  gets  through  he  is  appar 
ently  much  discouraged  about  this  universe. 
This  is  the  veritable  moment  when  I  am  in 
love  with  my  occupation  as  a  despot !  At 
this  moment  I  will  exercise  the  prerogative 
of  tyranny : 

"Off  with  his  head!" 

I  do  not  believe  this  person  though  he 
have  ever  so  many  titles  to  jingle  after  his 
name,  nor  in  the  colleges  which  gave  them, 
if  they  stand  sponsor  for  that  which  he  writes. 
I  do  not  believe  he  has  compassed  this  uni 
verse.  I  believe  him  to  be  an  inconsequent 
being  like  myself  —  oh,  much  more  learned, 
of  course  —  and  yet  only  upon  the  threshold 
of  these  wonders.  It  goes  too  deep  —  life  — • 
to  be  solved  by  fifty  years  of  living.  There 
is  far  too  much  in  the  blue  firmament,  too 
many  stars,  to  be  dissolved  in  the  feeble  logic 
of  a  single  brain.  We  are  not  yet  great 
enough,  even  this  explanatory  person,  to 
grasp  the  "scheme  of  things  entire."  This 
is  no  place  for  weak  pessimism  —  this  uni 
verse.  This  is  Mystery  and  out  of  Mystery 


CONTENTMENT  209 

springs  the  fine  adventure!  What  we  have 
seen  or  felt,  what  we  think  we  know,  are 
insignificant  compared  with  that  which  may 
be  known. 

What  this  person  explains  is  not,  after 
all,  the  Universe  —  but  himself,  his  own 
limited,  faithless  personality.  I  shall  not 
accept  his  explanation.  I  escape  him 
utterly ! 

Not  long  ago,  coming  in  from  my  fields, 
I  fell  to  thinking  of  the  supreme  wonder 
of  a  tree;  and  as  I  walked  I  met  the 
Professor. 

"How,"  I  asked,  "does  the  sap  get  up  to 
the  top  of  these  great  maples  and  elms? 
What  power  is  there  that  should  draw  it  up 
ward  against  the  force  of  gravity?" 

He  looked  at  me  a  moment  with  his  pecu 
liar  slow  smile. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said. 

"What!"  I  exclaimed,  "do  you  mean  to 
tell  me  that  science  has  not  solved  this  sim 
plest  of  natural  phenomena?" 

"We  do  not  know,"  he  said.  "We  ex 
plain,  but  we  do  not  know." 

No,  my  Explanatory  Friend,  we  do  not 
know  —  we  do  not  know  the  why  of  the 


210  ADVENTURES  IN 

flowers,  or  the  trees,  or  the  suns;  we  do  not 
even  know  why,  in  our  own  hearts,  we  should 
be  asking  this  curious  question  —  and  other 
deeper  questions. 

No  man  becomes  a  great  writer  unless  he 
possesses  a  highly  developed  sense  of  Mys 
tery,  of  wonder.  A  great  writer  is  never 
blas£;  everything  to  him  happened  not  longer 
ago  than  this  forenoon. 

The  other  night  the  Professor  and  tbo 
Scotch  Preacher  happened  in  here  together 
and  we  fell  to  discussing,  I  hardly  know 
how,  for  we  usually  talk  the  neighbour 
hood  chat  of  the  Starkweathers,  of  Horace 
and  of  Charles  Baxter,  we  fell  to  discuss 
ing  old  Izaak  Walton  —  and  the  nonsense 
(as  a  scientific  age  knows  it  to  be)  which 
he  sometimes  talked  with  such  delightful 
sobriety. 

"How  superior  it  makes  one  feel,  in  behalf 
of  the  enlightenment  and  progress  of  his 
age,"  said  the  Professor,  "when  he  reads 
Izaak 's  extraordinary  natural  history." 

"Does  it  make  you  feel  that  way?"  asked 
the  Scotch  Preacher.  "It  makes  me  want 
to  go  fishing," 


CONTENTMENT  211 

And  he  took  the  old  book  and  turned  the 
leaves  until  he  came  to  page  54. 

"Let  me  read  you,"  he  said,  "what  the 
old  fellow  says  about  the  'fearfulest  of 
fishes.' 

"  ' .  .  .  Get  secretly  behind  a  tree,  and  stand  as 
free  from  motion  as  possible;  then  put  a  grasshopper 
on  your  hook,  and  let  your  hook  hang  a  quarter  of 
a  yard  short  of  the  water,  to  which  end  you  must  rest 
your  rod  on  some  bough  of  a  tree;  but  it  is  likely 
that  the  Chubs  will  sink  down  towards  the  bottom 
of  the  water  at  the  first  shadow  of  your  rod,  for  a 
Chub  is  the  fearfulest  of  fishes,  and  will  do  so  if  but 
a  bird  flies  over  him  and  makes  the  least  shadow 
on  the  water;  but  they  will  presently  rise  up  to  the 
top  again,  and  there  lie  soaring  until  some  shadow 
affrights  them  again;  I  say,  when  they  lie  upon  the 
top  of  the  water,  look  at  the  best  Chub,  which  you, 
getting  yourself  in  a  fit  place,  may  very  easily  see, 
and  move  your  rod  as  slowly  as  a  snail  moves,  to 
that  Chub  you  intend  to  catch,  let  your  bait  fall 
gently  upon  the  water  three  or  four  inches  before 
him,  and  he  will  infallibly  take  the  bait,  and  you 
will  be  as  sure  to  catch  him.  .  .  .  Go  your  way 
presently,  take  my  rod,  and  do  as  I  bid  you,  and  I 
will  sit  down  and  mend  my  tackling  till  you  return 
back- 

"Now  I  say,"  said  the  Scotch  Preacher, 
"  that  it  makes  me  want  to  go  fishing." 


212  ADVENTURES  IN 

"That,"  I  said,  "is  true  of  every  great 
book:  it  either  makes  us  want  to  do  things, 
to  go  fishing,  or  fight  harder  or  endure  more 
patiently  —  or  it  takes  us  out  of  ourselves 
and  beguiles  us  for  a  time  with  the  friend 
ship  of  completer  lives  than  our  own." 

The  great  books  indeed  have  in  them  the 
burning  fire  of  life; 

....  "nay,  they  do  preserve,  as  in  a  violl, 
the  purest  efficacie  and  extraction  of  that  living 
intellect  that  bred  them.  I  know  they  are  as  lively, 
and  as  vigorously  productive,  as  those  fabulous 
Dragon's  teeth;  which  being  sown  up  and  down,  may 
chance  to  spring  up  armed  men." 

How  soon  we  come  to  distinguish  the  books 
of  the  mere  writers  from  the  books  of  real 
men!  For  true  literature,  like  happiness,  is 
ever  a  by-product;  it  is  the  half -conscious 
expression  of  a  man  greatly  engaged  in  some 
other  undertaking ;  it  is  the  song  of  one  work 
ing.  There  is  something  inevitable,  unre- 
strainable  about  the  great  books ;  they  seemed 
to  come  despite  the  author.  "I  could  not 
sleep,"  says  the  poet  Horace, "for  the  pressure 
of  unwritten  poetry."  Dante  said  of  his 
books  that  they  "made  him  lean  for  many 


CONTENTMENT  213 

days."  I  have  heard  people  say  of  a  writer 
in  explanation  of  his  success: 

"  Oh,  well,  he  has  the  literary  knack." 
It  is  not  so!  Nothing  is  further  from  the 
truth.  He  writes  well  not  chiefly  because 
he  is  interested  in  writing,  or  because  he 
possesses  any  especial  knack,  but  because 
he  is  more  profoundly,  vividly  interested  in 
the  activities  of  life  and  he  tells  about  them  — 
over  his  shoulder.  For  writing,  like  farming, 
is  ever  a  tool,  not  an  end. 

How  the  great  one-book  men  remain  with 
us!  I  can  see  Marcus  Aurelius  sitting  in  his 
camps  among  the  far  barbarians  writing  out 
the  reflections  of  a  busy  life.  I  see  William 
Penn  engaged  in  great  undertakings,  setting 
down  "Some  of  the  Fruits  of  Solitude,"  and 
Abraham  Lincoln  striking,  in  the  hasty 
paragraphs  written  for  his  speeches,  one  of 
the  highest  notes  in  our  American  literature. 

"David?" 
"Yes,  Harriet." 

"  I  am  going  up  now;  it  is  very  late." 
"Yes." 

"You  will  bank  the  fire  and  see  that  the 
doors  are  locked? " 


214  ADVENTURES  IN 

"Yes." 

After  a  pause:  "And,  David,  I  didn't 
mean  —  about  the  story  you  read.  Did  the 
Knight  finally  kill  the  lions?" 

"No,"  I  said  with  sobriety,  "it  was  not 
finally  necessary." 

"But  I  thought  he  set  out  to  kill  them." 

"He  did;  but  he  proved  his  valour  without 
doing  it." 

Harriet  paused,  made  as  if  to  speak  again, 
but  did  not  do  so. 

"  Valour  "  -  I  began  in  my  hortatory  tone, 
seeing  a  fair  opening,  but  at  the  look  in  her 
eye  I  immediately  desisted. 

"You  won't  stay  up  late?"  she  warned. 

"N-o,"  I  said. 

Take  John  Bunyan  as  a  pattern  of  the  man 
who  forgot  himself  into  immortality.  How 
seriously  he  wrote  sermons  and  pamphlets, 
now  happily  forgotten!  But  it  was  not 
until  he  was  shut  up  in  jail  (some  writers  I 
know  might  profit  by  his  example)  that  he 
"put  aside,"  as  he  said,  "a  more  serious 
and  important  work"  and  wrote  "Pilgrim's 
Progress."  It  is  the  strangest  thing  in  the 
world  —  the  judgment  of  men  as  to  what  is 


CONTENTMENT       215' 

important  and  serious!     Bunyan  says  in  his 
rhymed  introduction: 

"I  only  thought  to  make 
I  knew  not  what:  nor  did  I  undertake 
Thereby  to  please  my  neighbour;  no,  not  I: 
I  did  it  my  own  self  to  gratify." 

Another  man  I  love  to  have  at  hand  is  he 
who  writes  of  Blazing  Bosville,  the  Flaming 
Tinman,  and  of  The  Hairy  Ones. 

How  Borrow  escapes  through  his  books! 
His  object  was  not  to  produce  literature  but 
to  display  his  erudition  as  a  master  of  lan 
guage  and  of  outlandish  custom,  and  he 
went  about  the  task  in  all  seriousness  of 
demolishing  the  Roman  Catholic  Church. 
We  are  not  now  so  impressed  with  his  eru 
dition  that  we  do  not  smile  at  his  vanity  and 
we  are  quite  contented,  even  after  reading 
his  books,  to  let  the  church  survive;  but 
how  shall  we  spare  our  friend  with  his  in 
extinguishable  love  of  life,  his  pugilists,  his 
gypsies,  his  horse  traders?  We  are  even 
willing  to  plow  through  arid  deserts  of 
dissertation  in  order  that  we  may  enjoy 
the  perfect  oases  in  which  the  man  forgets 
himself! 


216  ADVENTURES  IN 

Reading  such  books  as  these  and  a  hundred 
others,  the  books  of  the  worn  case  at  my 

elbow, 

"  The  bulged  and  the  bruised  octavos, 
The  dear  and  the  dumpy  twelves " 

I  become  like  those  initiated  in  the  Eleusin- 
ian  mysteries  who,  as  Cicero  tells  us,  have 
attained  "the  art  of  living  joyfully  and  of 
dying  with  a  fairer  hope." 

It  is  late,  and  the  house  is  still.  A  few 
bright  embers  glow  in  the  fireplace.  You 
look  up  and  around  you,  as  though  coming 
back  to  the  world  from  some  far-off  place. 
The  clock  in  the  dining-room  ticks  with 
solemn  precision;  you  did  not  recall  that  it 
had  so  loud  a  tone.  It  has  been  a  great 
evening;  in  this  quiet  room  on  your  farm, 
you  have  been  able  to  entertain  the  worthies 
of  all  the  past ! 

You  walk  out,  resoundingly,  to  the  kitchen 
and  open  the  door.  You  look  across  the 
still  white  fields.  Your  barn  looms  black  in 
the  near  distance,  the  white  mound  close  at 
hand  is  your  wood-pile,  the  great  trees  stand 
like  sentinels  in  the  moonlight;  snow  has 
drifted  upon  the  doorstep  and  lies  there 


CONTENTMENT 


217 


untracked.  It  is,  indeed,  a  dim  and  un- 
tracked  world:  coldly  beautiful  but  silent  — 
and  of  a  strange  unreality!  You  close  the 
door  with  half  a  shiver  and  take  the  real  world 
with  you  up  to  bed.  For  it  is  past  one  o'clock. 


u  The  beauty,  the  wonder,  the  humour,  the  tragedy,  the  greatness  of 

truth" 


XIII 
THE  POLITICIAN 

IN  THE  city,  as  I  now  recall  it  (having 
escaped),  it  seemed  to  be  the  instinc 
tive  purpose  of  every  citizen  I  knew  not  to 
get  into  politics  but  to  keep  out.  We  sedu 
lously  avoided  caucuses  and  school-meetings, 
our  time  was  far  too  precious  to  be  squandered 
in  jury  service,  we  forgot  to  register  for  elec 
tions,  we  neglected  to  vote.  We  observed  a 
sort  of  aristocratic  contempt  for  political 
activity  and  then  fretted  and  fumed  over  the 
low  estate  to  which  our  government  had 
fallen  — and  never  saw  the  humour  of  it  all. 

218 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  219 

At  one  time  I  experienced  a  sort  of  political 
awakening:  a  "boss"  we  had  was  more  than 
ordinarily  piratical.  I  think  he  had  a  scheme 
to  steal  the  city  hall  and  sell  the  monuments 
in  the  park  (something  of  that  sort),  and  I, 
for  one,  was  disturbed.  For  a  time  I  really 
wanted  to  bear  a  man's  part  in  helping  to 
correct  the  abuses,  only  I  did  not  know  how 
and  could  not  find  out. 

In  the  city,  when  one  would  learn  any 
thing  about  public  matters,  he  turns,  not  to 
life,  but  to  books  or  newspapers.  What  we 
get  in  the  city  is  not  life,  but  what  someone 
else  tells  us  about  life.  So  I  acquired  a  really 
formidable  row  of  works  on  Political  Economy 
and  Government  (I  admire  the  word  "works" 
in  that  application)  where  I  found  Society 
laid  out  for  me  in  the  most  perfect  order  — 
with  pennies  on  its  eyes.  How  often,  look 
ing  back,  I  see  myself  as  in  those  days,  read 
ing  my  learned  books  with  a  sort  of  fury  of 
interest !  — 

From  the  reading  of  books  I  acquired  a 
sham  comfort.  Dwelling  upon  the  excellent 
theory  of  our  institutions,  I  was  content  to 
disregard  the  realities  of  daily  practice.  I 
acquired  a  mock  assurance  under  which  I 


220  ADVENTURES  IN 

proceeded  complacently  to  the  polls,  and  cast 
my  vote  without  knowing  a  single  man  on  the 
ticket,  what  he  stood  for,  or  what  he  really 
intended  to  do.  The  ceremony  of  the  ballot 
bears  to  politics  much  the  relationship  that 
the  sacrament  bears  to  religion:  how  often, 
observing  the  formality,  we  yet  depart  wholly 
from  the  spirit  of  the  institution. 

It  was  good  to  escape  that  place  of  hurrying 
strangers.  It  was  good  to  get  one's  feet  down 
into  the  soil.  It  was  good  to  be  in  a  place 
where  things  are  because  they  grow,  and  poli 
tics,  not  less  than  corn!  Oh,  my  friend,  say 
what  you  please,  argue  how  you  like,  this 
crowding  together  of  men  and  women  in 
unnatural  surroundings,  this  haste  to  be  rich 
in  material  things,  this  attempt  to  enjoy  with 
out  production,  this  removal  from  first-hand 
life,  is  irrational,  and  the  end  of  it  is  ruin.  If 
our  cities  were  not  recruited  constantly  with 
the  fresh,  clean  blood  of  the  country,  with 
boys  who  still  retain  some  of  the  power  and 
the  vision  drawn  from  the  soil,  where  would 
they  be! 

"We  're  a  great  people,"  says  Charles  Bax 
ter,  "but  we  don't  always  work  at  it." 


CONTENTMENT 


221 


"But  we  talk  about  it,"  says  the  Scotch 
Preacher. 

"By  the  way,"  says  Charles  Baxter,  "have 
you  seen  George  Warren?  He  's  up  for  super 
visor." 

"I  haven't  yet." 

"  Well,  go  around  and  see  him.  We  must 
find  out  exactly  what  he  intends  to  do  with 
the  Summit  Hill  road.  If  he  is  weak  on  that 
we  'd  better  look  to  Matt  Devine.  At  least 
Matt  is  safe." 

The  Scotch  Preacher  looked  at  Charles 
Baxter  and  said  to  me  with  a  note  of  admira 
tion  in  his  voice: 

"  Is  n't  this  man  Baxter  getting  to  be  in 
tolerable  as  a  political  boss!" 

Baxter's  shop!  Baxter's  shop  stands  close 
to  the  road  and  just  in  the  edge  of  a  grassy  old 
apple  orchard.  It  is  a  low,  unpainted  build 
ing,  with  generous  double  doors  in  front, 
standing  irresistibly  open  as  you  go  by.  Even 
as  a  stranger  coming  here  first  from  the  city 
I  felt  the  call  of  Baxter's  shop.  Shall  I  ever 
forget !  It  was  a  still  morning  —  one  of  those 
days  of  warm  sunshine  —  and  perfect  quiet 
in  the  country  —  and  birds  in  the  branches 


222  ADVENTURES  IN 

—  and  apple  trees  all  in  bloom.  Baxter  was 
whistling  at  his  work  in  the  sunlit  doorway  of 
his  shop,  in  his  long,  faded  apron,  much  worn 
at  the  knees.  He  was  bending  to  the  rhythmic 
movement  of  his  plane,  and  all  around  him 
as  he  worked  rose  billows  of  shavings.  And 
oh,  the  odours  of  that  shop!  the  fragrant, 
resinous  odour  of  new-cut  pine,  the  pungent 
smell  of  black  walnut,  the  dull  odour  of  oak 
wood  —  how  they  stole  out  in  the  sunshine, 
waylaying  you  as  you  came  far  up  the  road, 
beguiling  you  as  you  passed  the  shop,  and 
stealing  reproachfully  after  you  as  you  went 
onward  down  the  road. 

Never  shall  I  forget  that  grateful  moment 
when  I  first  passed  Baxter's  shop  —  a  failure 
from  the  city  —  and  Baxter  looking  out  at 
me  from  his  deep,  quiet,  gray  eyes  —  eyes 
that  were  almost  a  caress  i 

My  wayward  feet  soon  took  me,  unintro- 
duced,  within  the  doors  of  that  shop,  the  first 
of  many  visits.  And  I  can  say  no  more  in 
appreciation  of  my  ventures  there  than  that 
I  came  out  always  with  more  than  I  had  when 
I  went  in. 

The  wonders  there!  The  long  bench  with 
its  huge-jawed  wooden  vises,  and  the  little 


CONTENTMENT  223 

dusty  windows  above  looking  out  into  the 
orchard,  and  the  brown  planes  and  the  row  of 
shiny  saws,  and  the  most  wonderful  pattern 
squares  and  triangles  and  curves,  each  hang 
ing  on  its  own  peg ;  and  above,  in  the  rafters, 
every  sort  and  size  of  curious  wood.  And  oh! 
the  old  bureaus  and  whatnots  and  high-boys 
in  the  corners  waiting  their  turn  to  be  mended ; 
and  the  sticky  glue-pot  waiting,  too,  on  the 
end  of  the  sawhorse.  There  is  family  history 
here  in  this  shop  —  no  end  of  it  —  the  small 
and  yet  great  (because  intensely  human) 
tragedies  and  humours  of  the  long,  quiet  years 
among  these  sunny  hills.  That  whatnot  there, 
the  one  of  black  walnut  with  the  top  knocked 
off,  that  belonged  in  the  old  days  to 

"Charles  Baxter,"  calls  my  friend  Pat 
terson  from  the  roadway,  "can  you  fix  my 
cupboard?" 

"Bring  it  in,"  says  Charles  Baxter,  hos 
pitably,  and  Patterson  brings  it  in,  and  stops 
to  talk  —  and  stops  —  and  stops  —  There 
is  great  talk  in  Baxter's  shop  —  the  slow- 
gathered  wisdom  of  the  country,  the  lore  of 
crops  and  calves  and  cabinets.  In  Baxter's 
shop  we  choose  the  next  President  of  these 
United  States! 


224  ADVENTURES  IN 

You  laugh !  But  we  do  —  exactly  that.  It 
is  in  the  Baxters'  shops  (not  in  Broadway,  not 
in  State  Street)  where  the  presidents  are  de 
cided  upon.  In  the  little  grocery  stores  you 
and  I  know,  in  the  blacksmithies,  in  the  school- 
houses  back  in  the  country ! 

Forgive  me!  I  did  not  intend  to  wander 
away.  I  meant  to  keep  to  my  subject  —  but 
the  moment  I  began  to  talk  of  politics  in  the 
country  I  was  beset  by  a  compelling  vision 
of  Charles  Baxter  coming  out  of  his  shop 
in  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  carrying  his 
curious  old  reflector  lamp  and  leading  the  way 
down  the  road  to  the  schoolhouse.  And 
thinking  of  the  lamp  brought  a  vision  of  the 
joys  of  Baxter's  shop,  and  thinking  of  the 
shop  brought  me  naturally  around  to  politics 
and  presidents;  and  here  I  am  again  where 
I  started! 

Baxter's  lamp  is,  somehow,  inextricably 
associated  in  my  mind  with  politics.  Being 
busy  farmers,  we  hold  our  caucuses  and  other 
meetings  in  the  evening  and  usually  in  the 
schoolhouse.  The  schoolhouse  is  conveniently 
near  to  Baxter's  shop,  so  we  gather  at  Bax 
ter's  shop.  Baxter  takes  his  lamp  down 


CONTENTMENT  225 

from  the  bracket  above  his  bench,  reflector 
and  all,  and  you  will  see  us,  a  row  of  dusky 
figures,  Baxter  in  the  lead,  proceeding  down 
the  roadway  to  the  schoolhouse.  Having 
arrived,  some  one  scratches  a  match,  shields 
it  with  his  hand  (I  see  yet  the  sudden  fitful 
illumination  of  the  brown-bearded,  watchful 
faces  of  my  neighbours!)  and  Baxter  guides 
us  into  the  schoolhouse  —  with  its  shut-in 
dusty  odours  of  chalk  and  varnished  desks 
and  —  yes,  left-over  lunches ! 

Baxter's  lamp  stands  on  the  table,  casting 
a  vast  shadow  of  the  chairman  on  the  wall. 

"Come  to  order,"  says  the  chairman,  and 
we  have  here  at  this  moment  in  operation  the 
greatest  institution  in  this  round  world:  the 
institution  of  free  self-government.  Great 
in  its  simplicity,  great  in  its  unselfishness! 
And  Baxter's  old  lamp  with  its  smoky  tin 
reflector,  is  not  that  the  veritable  torch  of  our 
liberties  ? 

This,  I  forgot  to  say,  though  it  makes  no 
special  difference  —  a  caucus  would  be  the 
same  —  is  a  school  meeting. 

You  see,  ours  is  a  prolific  community. 
When  a  young  man  and  a  young  woman  are 
married  they  think  about  babies;  they  want 


226  ADVENTURES  IN 

babies,  and  what  is  more,  they  have  them  I 
and  love  them  afterward !  It  is  a  part  of  the 
complete  life.  And  having  babies,  there  must 
be  a  place  to  teach  them  to  live. 

Without  more  explanation  you  will  under 
stand  that  we  needed  an  addition  to  our 
schoolhouse.  A  committee  reported  that  the 
amount  required  would  be  $800.  We  talked 
it  over.  The  Scotch  Preacher  was  there  with 
a  plan  which  he  tacked  up  on  the  black 
board  and  explained  to  us.  He  told  us  of 
seeing  the  stone-mason  and  the  carpenter, 
he  told  us  what  the  seats  would  cost,  and  the 
door  knobs  and  the  hooks  in  the  closet.  We 
are  a  careful  people;  we  want  to  know  where 
every  penny  goes ! 

"If  we  put  it  all  in  the  budget  this  year 
what  will  that  make  the  rate?"  inquires  a 
voice  from  the  end  of  the  room. 

We  don't  look  around;  we  know  the  voice. 
And  when  the  secretary  has  computed  the 
rate,  if  you  listen  closely  you  can  almost  hear 
the  buzz  of  multiplications  and  additions 
which  is  going  on  in  each  man's  head  as  he 
calculates  exactly  how  much  the  addition 
will  mean  to  him  in  taxes  on  his  farm,  his 
daughter's  piano,  his  wife's  top-buggy. 


CONTENTMENT  227 

And  many  a  man  is  saying  to  himself: 

"If  we  build  this  addition  to  the  school- 
house,  I  shall  have  to  give  up  the  new  over 
coat  I  have  counted  upon,  or  Amanda  won't 
be  able  to  get  the  new  cooking-range." 

That's  real  politics:  the  voluntary  surren 
der  of  sortie  private  good  for  the  upbuilding 
of  some  community  good.  It  is  in  such  exer 
cises  that  the  fibre  of  democracy  growrs  sound 
and  strong.  There  is,  after  all,  in  this  world 
no  real  good  for  which  we  do  not  have  to 
surrender  something.  In  the  city  the  average 
voter  is  never  conscious  of  any  surrender.  He 
never  realises  that  he  is  giving  anything  him 
self  for  good  schools  or  good  streets.  Under 
such  conditions  how  can  you  expect  self- 
government?  No  service,  no  reward! 

The  first  meeting  that  I  sat  through  watch 
ing  those  bronzed  farmers  at  work  gave  me 
such  a  conception  of  the  true  meaning  of  self- 
government  as  I  never  hoped  to  have. 

"This  is  the  place  where  I  belong,"  I  said 
to  myself. 

It  was  wonderful  in  that  school  meeting  to 
see  how  every  essential  element  of  our  govern 
ment  was  brought  into  play.  Finance?  We 
discussed  whether  we  should  put  the  entire 


228  ADVENTURES  IN 

$800  into  the  next  year's  budget  or  divide  it, 
paying  part  in  cash  and  bonding  the  district 
for  the  remainder.  The  question  of  credit, 
of  interest,  of  the  obligations  of  this  genera 
tion  and  the  next,  were  all  discussed.  At  one 
time  long  ago  I  was  amazed  when  I  heard  my 
neighbours  arguing  in  Baxter's  shop  about  the 
issuance  of  certain  bonds  by  the  United  States 
government:  how  completely  they  under 
stood  it!  I  know  now  where  they  got  that 
understanding.  Right  in  the  school  meetings 
and  town  caucuses  where  they  raise  money 
yearly  for  the  expenses  of  our  small  govern 
ment!  There  is  nothing  like  it  in  the  city. 

The  progress  of  a  people  can  best  be  judged 
by  those  things  which  they  accept  as  matters- 
of-fact.  It  was  amazing  to  me,  coming  from 
the  city,  and  before  I  understood,  to  see  how 
ingrained  had  become  some  of  the  principles 
which  only  a  few  years  ago  were  fiercely- 
mooted  problems.  It  gave  me  a  new  pride 
in  my  country,  a  new  appreciation  of  the  steps 
in  civilisation  which  we  have  already  per 
manently  gained.  Not  a  question  have  I 
ever  heard  in  any  school  meeting  of  the  neces 
sity  of  educating  every  American  child  —  at 
any  cost.  Think  of  it!  Think  how  far  we 


CONTENTMENT  229 

have  come  in  that  respect,  in  seventy  -  -  yes, 
fifty  —  years.  Universal  education  has  be 
come  a  settled  axiom  of  our  life. 

And  there  was  another  point  —  so  com 
mon  now  that  we  do  not  appreciate  the  sig 
nificance  of  it.  I  refer  to  majority  rule.  In 
our  school  meeting  we  were  voting  money  out 
of  men's  pockets  —  money  that  we  all  needed 
for  private  expenses  —  and  yet  the  moment 
the  minority,  after  full  and  honest  discussion, 
failed  to  maintain  its  contention  in  opposition 
to  the  new  building,  it  yielded  with  perfect 
good  humour  and  went  on  with  the  discussion 
of  other  questions.  When  you  come  to 
think  of  it,  in  the  light  of  history,  is  not  that  a 
wonderful  thing  ? 

One  of  the  chief  property  owners  in  our 
neighbourhood  is  a  rather  crabbed  old  bach 
elor.  Having  no  children  and  heavy  taxes  to 
pay,  he  looks  with  jaundiced  eye  on  additions 
to  schoolhouses.  He  will  object  and  growl 
and  growl  and  object,  and  yet  pin  him  down 
as  I  have  seen  the  Scotch  Preacher  pin  him 
more  than  once,  he  will  admit  that  children 
("of  course,"  he  will  say,  "certainly,  of 
course")  must  be  educated. 

"  For  the  good  of  bachelors  as  well  as  other 


23o  ADVENTURES  IN 

people?"  the  Scotch  Preacher  will  press  it 
home. 

"Certainly,  of  course." 

And  when  the  final  issue  comes,  after  full 
discussion,  after  he  has  tried  to  lop  off  a  few 
yards  of  blackboard  or  order  cheaper  desks 
or  dispense  with  the  clothes-closet,  he  votes 
for  the  addition  with  the  rest  of  us. 

It  is  simply  amazing  to  see  how  much  grows 
out  of  those  discussions  —  how  much  of  that 
social  sympathy  and  understanding  which  is 
the  very  tap-root  of  democracy.  It  's  cheaper 
to  put  up  a  miserable  shack  of  an  addition. 
Why  not  do  it?  So  we  discuss  architecture 
—  blindly,  it  is  true ;  we  don't  know  the  books 
on  the  subject  —  but  we  grope  for  the  big 
true  things,  and  by  our  own  discussion  we 
educate  ourselves  to  know  why  a  good  build 
ing  is  better  than  a  bad  one.  Heating  and 
ventilation  in  their  relation  to  health,  the  use 
of  "fad  studies" — how  I  have  heard  those 
things  discussed ! 

How  Dr.  North,  who  has  now  left  us  for 
ever,  shone  in  those  meetings,  and  Charles 
Baxter  and  the  Scotch  Preacher  —  broad  men, 
every  one  —  how  they  have  explained  and 
argued,  with  what  patience  have  they  brought 


CONTENTMENT  231 

into  that  small  schoolhouse,  lighted  by  Charles 
Baxter's  lamp,  the  grandest  conceptions  of 
human  society  —  not  in  the  big  words  of  the 
books,  but  in  the  simple,  concrete  language 
of  our  common  life. 

"  Why  teach  physiology?  " 

What  a  talk  Dr.  North  once  gave  us  on 
that! 

"  Why  pay  a  teacher  $40  a  month  when  one 
can  be  had  for  $30 ? " 

You  should  have  heard  the  Scotch  Preacher 
answer  that  question!  Many  a  one  of  us 
went  away  with  some  of  the  education  which 
we  had  come,  somewhat  grudgingly,  to  buy 
for  our  children. 

These  are  our  political  bosses:  these  un 
known  patriots,  who  preach  the  invisible  pa 
triotism  which  expresses  itself  not  in  flags 
and  oratory,  but  in  the  quiet  daily  surrender 
of  private  advantage  to  the  public  good. 

There  is,  after  all,  no  such  thing  as  perfect 
equality;  there  must  be  leaders,  flag-bearers, 
bosses  —  whatever  you  call  them.  Some  men 
have  a  genius  for  leading ;  others  for  following ; 
each  is  necessary  and  dependent  upon  the 
other.  In  cities,  that  leadership  is  often  per 
verted  and  used  to  evil  ends.  Neither  leaders 


23  2  ADVENTURES  IN 

nor  followers  seem  to  understand.  In  its 
essence  politics  is  merely  a  mode  of  expressing 
human  sympathy.  In  the  country  many  and 
many  a  leader  like  Baxter  works  faithfully  year 
in  and  year  out,  posting  notices  of  caucuses, 
school  meetings  and  elections,  opening  cold 
schoolhouses,  talking  to  candidates,  prodding 
selfish  voters  —  and  mostly  without  reward. 
Occasionally  they  are  elected  to  petty  offices 
where  they  do  far  more  work  than  they  are 
paid  for  (we  have  our  eyes  on  'em) ;  often  they 
are  rewarded  by  the  power  and  place  which 
leadership  gives  them  among  their  neighbours, 
and  sometimes  —  and  that  is  Charles  Baxter's 
case  —  they  simply  like  it !  Baxter  is  of  the 
social  temperament:  it  is  the  natural  expres 
sion  of  his  personality.  As  for  thinking  of 
himself  as  a  patriot,  he  would  never  dream 
of  it.  Work  with  the  hands,  close  touch  with 
the  common  life  of  the  soil,  has  given  him  much 
of  the  true  wisdom  of  experience.  He  knows 
us  and  we  know  him;  he  carries  the  banner, 
holds  it  as  high  as  he  knows  how,  and  we 
follow. 

Whether  there  can  be  a  real  democracy  (as 
in  a  city)  where  there  is  not  that  elbow- 
knowledge,  that  close  neighbourhood  sympa- 


CONTENTMENT  233 

thy,  that  conscious  surrender  of  little  personal 
goods  for  bigger  public  ones,  I  don't  know. 

We  have  n't  many  foreigners  in  our  dis 
trict,  but  all  three  were  there  on  the  night  we 
voted  for  the  addition.  They  are  Polish. 
Each  has  a  farm  where  the  whole  family  works 
—  and  puts  on  a  little  more  Americanism 
each  year.  They  're  good  people.  It  is  sur 
prising  how  much  all  these  Poles,  Italians, 
Germans  and  others,  are  like  us,  how  perfectly 
human  they  are,  when  we  know  them  person 
ally!  One  Pole  here,  named  Kausky,  I  have 
come  to  know  pretty  well,  and  I  declare  I 
have  forgotten  that  he  is  a  Pole.  There  's 
nothing  like  the  rub  of  democracy!  The 
reason  why  we  are  so  suspicious  of  the  for 
eigners  in  our  cities  is  that  they  are  crowded 
together  in  such  vast,  unknown,  undigested 
masses.  We  have  swallowed  them  too  fast, 
and  we  suffer  from  a  sort  of  national  dyspepsia. 

Here  in  the  country  we  promptly  digest  our 
foreigners  and  they  make  as  good  Americans 
as  anybody. 

"Catch  a  foreigner  when  he  first  comes 
here,"  says  Charles  Baxter,  "and  he  takes  to 
our  politics  like  a  fish  to  water." 

The  Scotch  Preacher  says  they  "gape  for 


234  ADVENTURES  IN 

education."  And  when  I  see  Kausky's  six 
children  going  by  in  the  morning  to  school, 
all  their  round,  sleepy,  fat  faces  shining  with 
soap,  I  believe  it!  Baxter  tells  with  humour 
how  he  persuaded  Kausky  to  vote  for  the 
addition  to  the  schoolhouse.  It  was  a  pretty 
stiff  tax  for  the  poor  fellow  to  pay,  but  Baxter 
"figgered  children  with  him,"  as  he  said. 
With  six  to  educate,  Baxter  showed  him  that 
he  was  actually  getting  a  good  deal  more  than 
he  paid  for! 

Be  it  far  from  me  to  pretend  that  we  are 
always  right  or  that  we  have  arrived  in  our 
country  at  the  perfection  of  self-government. 
I  tio  not  wish  to  imply  that  all  of  our  people 
are  interested,  that  all  attend  the  caucuses 
and  school-meetings  (some  of  the  most 
prominent  never  come  near  —  they  stay  away, 
and  if  things  don 't  go  right  they  blame 
Charles  Baxter ! )  Nor  must  I  over-emphasise 
the  seriousness  of  our  public  interest.  But  we 
certainly  have  here,  if  anywhere  in  this  nation, 
real  self-government.  Growth  is  a  slow  process. 
We  often  fail  in  our  election  of  delegates  to  State 
conventions;  we  sometimes  vote  wrong  in 
national  affairs.  It  is  an  easy  thing  to  think 
school  district;  difficult,  indeed,  to  think 


CONTENTMENT  235 

State  or  nation.  But  we  grow.  When  we  make 
mistakes,  it  is  not  because  we  are  evil,  but 
because  we  don't  know.  Once  we  get  a  clear 
understanding  of  the  right  or  wrong  of  any 
question  you  can  depend  upon  us  —  abso 
lutely  —  to  vote  for  what  is  right.  With  more 
education  we  shall  be  able  to  think  in  larger 
and  larger  circles  —  until  we  become,  finally, 
really  national  in  our  interests  and  sympathies. 
Whenever  a  man  comes  along  who  knows 
how  simple  we  are,  and  how  much  we  really 
want  to  do  right,  if  we  can  be  convinced  that 
a  thing  is  right  —  who  explains  how  the  rail 
road  question,  for  example,  affects  us  in  our 
intimate  daily  lives,  what  the  rights  and 
wrongs  of  it  are,  why,  we  can  understand  and 
do  understand  —  and  we  are  ready  to  act. 

It  is  easy  to  rally  to  a  flag  in  times  of  ex 
citement.  The  patriotism  of  drums  and 
marching  regiments  is  cheap;  blood  is  ma 
terial  and  cheap ;  physical  weariness  and  hun 
ger  are  cheap.  But  the  struggle  I  speak  of  is 
not  cheap.  It  is  dramatised  by  few  symbols. 
It  deals  with  hidden  spiritual  qualities  within 
the  conscience  of  men.  Its  heroes  are  yet 
unsung  and  unhonoured.  No  combats  in  all 
the  world's  history  were  ever  fought  so  high 


236  ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT 

upward   in  the  spiritual  air  as  these;   and, 
surely,   not   for   nothing! 

And  so,  out  of  my  experience  both  in  city 
and  country,  I  feel  —  yes,  I  know  —  that  the 
real  motive  power  of  this  democracy  lies  back 
in  the  little  country  neighbourhoods  like  ours 
where  men  gather  in  dim  schoolhouses  and 
practice  the  invisible  patriotism  of  surrender 
and  service. 


'..,*v*; 

-% 


:^« ' 


^  ^ 


XIV 

THE  HARVEST 

"  Oh,  Universe,  what  them  wishest,  I  wish." 

— Marcus  Aurelius. 

I  COME  to  the  end  of  these  Adventures 
with  a  regret  I  can  scarcely  express. 
I,  at  least,  have  enjoyed  them.  I  began 
setting  them  down  with  no  thought  of  publi 
cation,  but  for  my  own  enjoyment;  the 
possibility  of  a  book  did  not  suggest  itself 
until  afterwards.  I  have  tried  to  relate  the 
experiences  of  that  secret,  elusive,  invisible 
life  which  in  every  man  is  so  far  more  real,  so 
far  more  important  than  his  visible  activities  — • 

237 


23 8  ADVENTURES  IN 

the  real  expression  of  a  life  much  occupied  in 
other  employment. 

When  I  first  came  to  this  farm,  I  came 
empty-handed.  I  was  the  veritable  pattern 
of  the  city-made  failure.  I  believed  that 
life  had  nothing  more  in  store  for  me.  I 
was  worn  out  physically,  mentally  and,  in 
deed,  morally.  I  had  diligently  planned  for 
Success;  and  I  had  reaped  defeat.  I  came 
here  without  plans.  I  plowed  and  harrowed 
and  planted,  expecting  nothing.  In  due 
time  I  began  to  reap.  And  it  has  been 
a  growing  marvel  to  me,  the  diverse  and 
unexpected  crops  that  I  have  produced  within 
these  uneven  acres  of  earth.  With  sweat 
I  planted  corn,  and  I  have  here  a  crop  not 
only  of  corn  but  of  happiness  and  hope.  My 
tilled  fields  have  miraculously  sprung  up  to 
friends  ! 

This  book  is  one  of  the  unexpected  pro 
ducts  of  my  farm.  It  is  this  way  with 
the  farmer.  After  the  work  of  planting  and 
cultivating,  after  the  rain  has  fallen  in  his 
fields,  after  the  sun  has  warmed  them,  after 
the  new  green  leaves  have  broken  the  earth  — 
one  day  he  stands  looking  out  with  a  certain 
new  joy  across  his  acres  (the  wind  bends  and 


CONTENTMENT  239 

half  turns  the  long  blades  of  the  corn)  and 
there  springs  up  within  him  a  song  of  the 
fields.  No  matter  how  little  poetic,  how 
little  articulate  he  is,  the  song  rises  irre- 
pressibly  in  his  heart,  and  he  turns  aside  from 
his  task  with  a  new  glow  of  fulfillment  and 
contentment.  At  harvest  time  in  our  country 
I  hear,  or  I  imagine  I  hear,  a  sort  of  chorus 
rising  over  all  the  hills,  and  I  meet  no  man 
who  is  not,  deep  down  within  him,  a  singer! 
So  song  follows  work :  so  art  grows  out  of  life ! 
And  the  friends  I  have  made!  They  have 
come  to  me  naturally,  as  the  corn  grows  in 
my  fields  or  the  wind  blows  in  my  trees. 
Some  strange  potency  abides  within  the  soil 
of  this  earth!  When  two  men  stoop  (there 
must  be  stooping)  and  touch  it  together,  a 
magnetic  current  is  set  up  between  them:  a 
flow  of  common  understanding  and  confi 
dence.  I  would  call  the  attention  of  all  great 
Scientists,  Philosophers,  and  Theologians  to 
this  phenomenon:  it  will  repay  investigation. 
It  is  at  once  the  rarest  and  the  commonest 
thing  I  know.  It  shows  that  down  deep 
within  us,  where  we  really  live,  we  are  all 
a  good  deal  alike.  We  have  much  the 
same  instincts,  hopes,  joys,  sorrows.  If  only 


240  ADVENTURES  IN 

it  were  not  for  the  outward  things  that 
we  commonly  look  upon  as  important  (which 
are  in  reality  not  at  all  important)  we  might 
come  together  without  fear,  vanity,  envy, 
or  prejudice  and  be  friends.  And  what  a 
world  it  would  be!  If  civilisation  means 
anything  at  all  it  means  the  increasing  ability 
of  men  to  look  through  material  possessions, 
through  clothing,  through  differences  of  speech 
and  colour  of  skin,  and  to  see  the  genuine 
man  that  abides  within  each  of  us.  It  means 
an  escape  from  symbols! 

I  tell  this  merely  to  show  what  surprising 
and  unexpected  things  have  srrown  out  of 
my  farm.  All  along  I  have  had  more  than  I 
bargained  for.  From  now  on  I  shall  marvel 
at  nothing!  When  I  ordered  my  own  life  I 
failed;  now  that  I  work  from  day  to  day, 
doing  that  which  I  can  do  best  and  which 
most  delights  me,  I  am  rewarded  in  ways  that 
I  could  not  have  imagined.  Why,  it  would 
not  surprise  me  if  heaven  were  at  the  end  of 
all  this! 

Now,  I  am  not  so  foolish  as  to  imagine  that 
a  farm  is  a  perfect  place.  In  these  Adven 
tures  I  have  emphasised  perhaps  too  forcibly 
the  joyful  and  pleasant  features  of  my  life. 


CONTENTMENT  241 

In  what  I  have  written  I  have  naturally 
chosen  only  those  things  which  were  most 
interesting  and  charming.  My  life  has  not  been 
without  discouragement  and  loss  and  loneli 
ness  (loneliness  most  of  all) .  I  have  enjoyed 
the  hard  work ;  the  little  troubles  have  troubled 
me  more  than  the  big  ones.  I  detest  un 
harnessing  a  muddy  horse  in  the  rain!  I 
don't  like  chickens  in  the  barn.  And  some 
how  Harriet  uses  an  inordinate  amount  of 
kindling  wood.  But  once  in  the  habit,  un 
pleasant  things  have  a  way  of  fading  quickly 
and  quietly  from  the  memory. 

And  you  see  after  living  so  many  years  in 
the  city  the  worst  experience  on  the  farm  is  a 
sort  of  joy! 

In  most  men  as  I  come  to  know  them  —  I 
mean  men  who  dare  to  look  themselves  in 
the  eye  —  I  find  a  deep  desire  for  more 
naturalness,  more  directness.  How  weary 
we  all  grow  of  this  fabric  of  deception  which 
is  called  modern  life.  How  passionately  we 
desire  to  escape  but  cannot  see  the  way! 
How  our  hearts  beat  with  sympathy  when 
we  find  a  man  who  has  turned  his  back  upon 
it  all  and  who  says  "I  will  live  it  no  longer." 
How  we  flounder  in  possessions  as  in  a  dark 


242  ADVENTURES  IN 

and  suffocating  bog,  wasting  our  energies 
not  upon  life  but  upon  things.  Instead  of 
employing  our  houses,  our  cities,  our  gold, 
our  clothing,  we  let  these  inanimate  things 
possess  and  employ  us  —  to  what  utter  weari 
ness.  "Blessed  be  nothing,"  sighs  a  dear 
old  lady  of  my  knowledge. 

Of  all  ways  of  escape  I  know,  the  best, 
though  it  is  far  from  perfection,  is  the  farm. 
There  a  man  may  yield  himself  most  nearly 
to  the  quiet  and  orderly  processes  of  nature. 
He  may  attain  most  nearly  to  that  equi 
librium  between  the  material  and  spiritual, 
with  time  for  the  exactions  of  the  first,  and 
leisure  for  the  growth  of  the  second,  which 
is  the  ideal  of  life. 

In  times  past  most  farming  regions  in  this 
country  have  suffered  the  disadvantages  of  iso 
lation,  the  people  have  dwelt  far  distant  from 
one  another  and  from  markets,  they  have  had 
little  to  stimulate  them  intellectually  or  socially. 
Strong  and  peculiar  individuals  and  families 
were  often  developed  at  the  expense  of  a  friendly 
community  life:  neighbourhood  feuds  were 
common.  Country  life  was  marked  with  the 
rigidity  of  a  hard  provincialism.  All  this, 
however,  is  rapidly  changing.  The  closer 


CONTENTMENT  243 

settlement  of  the  land,  the  rural  delivery  of 
mails  (the  morning  newspaper  reaches  the  tin 
box  at  the  end  of  my  lane  at  noon) ,  the  farmer's 
telephone,  the  spreading  country  trolleys, 
more  schools  and  churches,  and  cheaper  rail 
road  rates,  have  all  helped  to  bring  the  far 
mer's  life  well  within  the  stimulating  currents 
of  world  thought  without  robbing  it  of  its 
ancient  advantages.  And  those  advantages 
are  incalculable:  Time  first  for  thought  and 
reflection  (narrow  streams  cut  deep)  leading 
to  the  growth  of  a  sturdy  freedom  of  action  — 
which  is,  indeed,  a  natural  characteristic  of 
the  man  who  has  his  feet  firmly  planted  upon 
his  own  land. 

A  city  hammers  and  polishes  its  denizens 
into  a  defined  model:  it  worships  standard 
isation;  but  the  country  encourages  differ 
entiation,  it  loves  new  types.  Thus  it  is 
that  so  many  great  and  original  men  have 
lived  their  youth  upon  the  land.  It  would 
be  impossible  to  imagine  Abraham  Lincoln 
brought  up  in  a  street  of  tenements.  Family 
life  on  the  farm  is  highly  educative;  there  is 
more  discipline  for  a  boy  in  the  continuous 
care  of  a  cow  or  a  horse  than  in  many  a  term 
of  school.  Industry,  patience,  perseverance 


244  ADVENTURES  IN 

are  qualities  inherent  in  the  very  atmosphere 
of  country  life.  The  so-called  manual  train 
ing  of  city  schools  is  only  a  poor  makeshift  for 
developing  in  the  city  boy  those  habits  which 
the  country  boy  acquires  naturally  in  his 
daily  life.  An  honest,  hard-working  country 
training  is  the  best  inheritance  a  father  can 
leave  his  son. 

And  yet  a  farm  is  only  an  opportunity,  a 
tool.  A  cornfield,  a  plow,  a  woodpile,  an  oak 
tree,  will  cure  no  man  unless  he  have  it  in 
himself  to  be  cured.  The  truth  is  that  no 
life,  and  least  of  all  a  farmer's  life,  is  simple 
—  unless  it  is  simple.  I  know  a  man  and  his 
wife  who  came  out  here  to  the  country  with 
the  avowed  purpose  of  becoming,  forthwith, 
simple.  They  were  unable  to  keep  the 
chickens  out  of  their  summer  kitchen.  They 
discovered  microbes  in  the  well,  and  mos 
quitoes  in  the  cistern,  and  wasps  in  the  garret. 
Owing  to  the  resemblance  of  the  seeds,  their 
radishes  turned  out  to  be  turnips!  The  last 
I  heard  of  them  they  were  living  snugly  in  a 
flat  in  Sixteenth  Street  —  all  their  troubles 
solved  by  a  dumb-waiter. 

The  great  point  of  advantage  in  the  life  of 
the  country  is  that  if  a  man  is  in  reality  sim- 


CONTENTMENT  245 

pie,  if  he  love  true  contentment,  it  is  the  place 
of  all  places  where  he  can  live  his  life  most 
freely  and  fully,  where  he  can  grow.  The 
city  affords  no  such  opportunity;  indeed,  it 
often  destroys,  by  the  seductiveness  with 
which  it  flaunts  its  carnal  graces,  the  desire 
for  the  higher  life  which  animates  every 
good  man. 

While  on  the  subject  of  simplicity  it  may 
be  well  to  observe  that  simplicity  does  not 
necessarily,  as  some  of  those  who  escape  from 
the  city  seem  to  think,  consist  in  doing  with 
out  things,  but  rather  in  the  proper  use  of 
things.  One  cannot  return,  unless  with  af 
fectation,  to  the  crudities  of  a  former  existence. 
We  do  not  believe  in  Diogenes  and  his  tub. 
Do  you  not  think  the  good  Lord  has  given  us 
the  telephone  (that  we  may  better  reach  that 
elbow-rub  of  brotherhood  which  is  the  high 
est  of  human  ideals)  and  the  railroad  (that  we 
may  widen  our  human  knowledge  and  sym 
pathy)  —  and  even  the  motor-car  ?  (though, 
indeed,  I  have  sometimes  imagined  that  the 
motor-cars  passing  this  way  had  a  different 
origin!).  He  may  have  given  these  things 
to  us  too  fast,  faster  than  we  can  bear;  but 
is  that  any  reason  why  we  should  denounce 


246  ADVENTURES  IN 

them  all  and  return  to  the  old,  crude,  time- 
consuming  ways  of  our  ancestors?  I  am  no 
reactionary.  I  do  not  go  back.  I  neglect  no 
tool  of  progress.  I  am  too  eager  to  know 
every  wonder  in  this  universe.  The  motor 
car,  if  I  had  one,  could  not  carry  me  fast 
enough!  I  must  yet  fly! 

After  my  experience  in  the  country,  if  I 
were  to  be  cross-examined  as  to  the  requisites 
of  a  farm,  I  should  say  that  the  chief  thing 
to  be  desired  in  any  sort  of  agriculture,  is 
good  health  in  the  farmer.  What,  after  all, 
can  touch  that !  How  many  of  our  joys  that 
we  think  intellectual  are  purely  physical! 
This  joy  o'  the  morning  that  the  poet  carols 
about  so  cheerfully,  is  often  nothing  more 
than  the  exuberance  produced  by  a  good  hot 
breakfast.  Going  out  of  my  kitchen  door 
some  mornings  and  standing  for  a  moment, 
while  I  survey  the  green  and  spreading  fields 
of  my  farm,  it  seems  to  me  truly  as  if  all  nature 
were  making  a  bow  to  me.  It  seems  to  me 
that  there  never  was  a  better  cow  than  mine, 
never  a  more  really  perfect  horse,  and  as  for 
pigs,  could  any  in  this  world  herald  my  ap 
proach  with  more  cheerful  gruntings  and 
squealings  J 


CONTENTMENT  247 

But  there  are  other  requisites  for  a  farm. 
It  must  not  be  too  large,  else  it  "Will  keep  you 
away  from  your  friends.  Provide  a  town 
not  too  far  off  (and  yet  not  too  near)  where 
you  can  buy  your  flour  and  sell  your  grain. 
If  there  is  a  railroad  convenient  (though  not 
so  near  that  the  whistling  of  the  engines 
reaches  you),  that  is  an  added  advantage. 
Demand  a  few  good  old  oak  trees,  or  walnuts, 
or  even  elms  will  do.  No  well-regulated  farm 
should  be  without  trees;  and  having  secured 
the  oaks  —  buy  your  fuel  of  your  neighbours. 
Thus  you  will  be  blessed  with  beauty  both 
summer  and  winter. 

As  for  neighbours,  accept  those  nearest  at 
hand ;  you  will  find  them  surprisingly  human, 
like  yourself.  If  you  like  them  you  will  be 
surprised  to  find  how  much  they  all  like  you 
(and  will  upon  occasion  lend  you  a  spring- 
tooth  harrow  or  a  butter  tub,  or  help  you 
with  your  plowing) ;  but  if  you  hate  them 
they  will  return  your  hatred  with  interest.  I 
have  discovered  that  those  who  travel  in  pur 
suit  of  better  neighbours  never  find  them. 

Somewhere  on  every  farm,  along  with  the 
other  implements,  there  should  be  a  row  of 
good  books,  which  should  not  be  allowed  to 


ADVENTURES  IN 

rust  with  disuse:  a  book,  like  a  hoe,  grows 
brighter  with  employment.  And  no  farm, 
even  in  tins  country  where  we  enjoy  the  even 
balance  of  the  seasons,  rain  and  shine,  shine 
and  rain,  should  be  devoid  of  that  irrigation 
from  the  currents  of  the  world's  thought  which 
is  so  essential  to  the  complete  life.  From  the 
papers  which  the  postman  puts  in  the  box 
flow  the  true  waters  of  civilisation.  You  will 
find  within  their  columns  how  to  be  good  or 
how  to  make  pies:  you  will  get  out  of  them 
what  you  look  for!  And  finally,  down  the 
road  from  your  farm,  so  that  you  can  hear  the 
bell  on  Sunday  mornings,  there  should  be  a 
little  church.  It  will  do  you  good  even 
though,  like  me,  you  do  not  often  attend.  It 's 
a  sort  of  Ark  of  the  Covenant ;  and  when  you 
get  to  it,  you  will  find  therein  the  True  Spirit  — • 
if  you  take  it  with  you  when  you  leave  home. 
Of  course  you  will  look  for  good  land  and 
comfortable  buildings  when  you  buy  your 
farm:  they  are,  indeed,  prime  requisites.  I 
have  put  them  last  for  the  reason  that  they 
are  so  often  first.  I  have  observed,  however, 
that  the  joy  of  the  farmer  is  by  no  means  in 
proportion  to  the  area  of  his  arable  land.  It 
is  often  a  nice  matter  to  decide  between  acres 


CONTENTMENT  249 

and  contentment:  men  perish  from  too  much 
as  well  as  from  too  little.  And  if  it  be  pos 
sible  there  should  be  a  long  table  in  the  dining- 
room  and  little  chairs  around  it,  and  small  beds 
upstairs,  and  young  voices  calling  at  their 
play  in  the  fields  —  if  it  be  possible. 

Sometimes  I  say  to  myself:  I  have  grasped 
happiness!  Here  it  is;  I  have  it.  And  yet, 
it  always  seems  at  that  moment  of  complete 
fulfillment  as  though  my  hand  trembled,  that 
I  might  not  take  it ! 

I  wonder  if  you  recall  the  story  of  Chris 
tian  and  Hopeful,  how,  standing  on  the  hill 
Clear  (as  we  do  sometimes  —  at  our  best) 
they  looked  for  the  gates  of  the  Celestial  City 
(as  we  look  —  how  fondly !) : 

"  Then  they  essayed  to  look,  but  the  remembrance 
of  that  last  thing  that  the  shepherds  had  showed 
them  made  their  hands  shake,  by  means  of  which 
impediment  they  could  not  look  steadily  through  the 
glass:  yet  they  thought  they  saw  something  like  the 
gate,  and  also  some  of  the  glory  of  the  place." 

How  often  I  have  thought  that  I  saw  some 
of  the  glory  of  the  place  (looking  from  the  hill 
Clear)  and  how  often,  lifting  the  glass,  my 
hand  has  trembled! 


STORIES    OF    RARE    CHARM    BY 

GENE  STRATTON-PORTER 

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THE  HARVESTER 


Illustrated  by  W.  L.  Jacobs 

"The  Harvester,"  David  Langston,  is 
a  man  of  the  woods  and  fields,  who  draws 
his  living  from  the  prodigal  hand  of  Mother 
Nature  herself.  If  the  book  had  nothing  in 
it  but  the  splendid  figure  of  this  man,  wiih 
his  sure  gnp  on  life,  his  superb  optimism, 
and  his  almost  miraculous  knowledge  of 
nature  secrets,  it  would  be  notable.  But 
when  the  Girl  comes  to  his  "Medicine 
Woods,"  and  the  Harvester's  whole  sound, 
healthy,  large  outdoor  being  realizes  that 
this  is  the  highest  point  of  life  which  has 
come  to  him  —  there  begins  a  romance, 
troubled  and  interrupted,  yet  of  the  rarest  idyllic  quality. 

FRECKLES.       Decorations  by  E.  Stetson  Crawford 

Freckles  is  a  nameless  waif  when  the  tale  opens,  but  the  way  in 
which  he  takes  hold  of  life;  the  nature  friendships  he  forms  in  the 
great  Limberlost  Swamp;  the  manner  in  which  eveiyone  who  meets 
him  succumbs  to  the  charm  of  his  engaging  personality;  and  his  love- 
story  with  "The  Angel"  are  full  of  real  sentiment. 

A  GIRL  OF  THE  LIMBERLOST. 

Illustrated  by  Wladyslaw  T.  Brenda. 

The  story  of  a  girl  of  the  Michigan  woods;  a  buoyant,  lovable 
type  of  the  self-reliant  American.  Her  philosophy  is  one  of  love  and 
kindness  towards  all  things;  her  hope  is  never  dimmed.  And  by  the 
sheer  beauty  of  her  soul,  and  the  purity  of  her  vision,  she  wins  from 
barren  and  unpromising  surroundings  those  rewards  of  high  courage. 

It  is  an  inspiring  story  of  a  life  worth  while  and  the  rich  beauties 
of  the  out-of-doors  are  strewn  through  all  its  pages. 

AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  RAINBOW. 

Illustrations  in  colors  by  Oliver  Kemp.    Design  and  decorations  by 
Ralph  Fletcher  Seymour. 

The  scene  of  this  charming,  idyllic  love  story  is  laid  in  Central 
Indiana.  The  story  is  one  of  devoted  friendship,  and  tender  self- 
sacrificing  love;  the  friendship  that  gives  freely  without  return,  and 
the  love  that  seeks  first  the  happiness  of  the  object.  The  novel  is 
brimful  of  the  most  beautiful  word  painting  of  nature,  and  its  pathos 
and  tender  sentiment  will  endear  it  to  all. 

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MYRTLE  REED'S  NOVELS 

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LAVENDER  AND  OLD  LACE. 


A  charming  story  of  a  quaint  corner  of 
New  England  where  bygone  romance  finds  a 
modern  parallel.  The  story  centers  round 
the  coming  of  love  to  the  young  people  on 
the  staff  of  a  newspaper — and  it  is  one  of  the 
prettiest,  sweetest  and  quaintest  of  old  fash 
ioned  love  stories,  *  *  *  a  rare  book,  ex 
quisite  in  spirit  and  conception,  full  of 
delicate  fancy,  of  tenderness,  of  delightful 
humor  and  spontaniety. 


A  SPINNER  IN  THE  SUN. 

Miss  Myrtle  Reed  may  always  be  depended  upon  to  write  a  story 
in  which  poetry,  charm,  tenderness  and  humor  are  combined  into  a 
clever  and  entertaining  book.  Her  characters  are  delightful  and  she 
>  always  displays  a  quaint  humor  of  expression  and  a  quiet  feeling  of 
pathos  which  give  a  touch  of  active  realism  to  all  her  writings.  In 
'A  Spinner  in  the  Sun"  she  tells  an  old-fashioned  love  story,  of  a 
veiled  lady  who  lives  in  solitude  and  whose  features  her  neighbors 
have  never  seen.  There  is  a  mystery  at  the  heart  of  the  book  that 
throws  over  it  the  glamour  of  romance. 

THE    MASTER'S    VIOLIN, 

A  love  story  in  a  musical  atmosphere.  A  picturesque,  old  Ger 
man  virtuoso  is  the  reverent  possessor  of  a  genuine  "Cremona."  He 
consents  to  take  for  his  pupil  a  handsome  youth  who  proves  to  have 
an  aptitude  for  technique,  but  not  the  soul  of  an  artist.  The  youth 
has  led  the  happy,  careless  life  of  a  modern,  well-to-do  young  Amer 
ican  and  he  cannot,  with  his  meagre  past,  express  the  love,  the  passion 
and  the  tragedies  of  life  and  all  its  happy  phases  as  can  the  master 
who  has  lived  life  in  all  its  fulness.  But  a  girl  comes  into  his  life — a 
beautiful  bit  of  human  driftwood  that  his  aunt  had  taken  into  her 
heart  and  home,  and  through  his  passionate  love  for  her,  he  learns 
the  lessons  that  life  has  to  give — and  his  soul  awakes. 

Founded  on  a  fact  that  all  artists  realize. 

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AMELIA  E.  BARK'S  STORIES 

DELIGHTFUL    TALES    OF   OLD    NEW   YORK 

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THE  BOW  OF  ORANGE  RIBBON.    With  Frontispiece. 

This  exquisite  little  romance  opens  in  New  York  City  in  "the  ten 
der  grace' '  of  a  May  day  long  past,  when  the  old  Dutch  families 
clustered  around  Bowling  Green.  It  is  the  beginning  of  the  romance 
of  Katherine,  a  young  Dutch  girl  who  has  sent,  as  a  love  token,  to  a 
young  English  officer,  the  bow  of  orange  ribbon  which  she  has  worn 
for  years  as  a  sacred  emblem  on  the  day  of  St.  Nicholas.  After  the 
bow  of  ribbon  Katherine's  heart  soon  flies.  Unlike  her  sister,  whose 
heart  has  found  a  safe  resting  place  among  her  own  people,  Katherine's 
heart  must  rove  from  home — must  know  to  the  utmost  all  that  life 
holds  of  both  joy  and  sorrow.  And  so  she  goes  beyond  the  seas,  leav 
ing  her  parents  as  desolate  as  were  Isaac  and  Rebecca  of  old. 

THE    MAID    OF   MAIDEN   LANE;       A  Love  Story.      With 

Illustrations  by  S.  M.  Arthur. 

A  sequel  to  "The  Bow  of  Orange  Ribbon."  The  time  is  the 
gracious  days  of  Seventeen-hundred  and  ninety-one,  when  "Th« 
Marseillaise"  was  sung  with  the  American  national  airs,  and  the 
spirit  affected  commerce,  politics  and  conversation.  In  the  midst  of 
this  period  the  romance  of  "The  Sweetest  Maid  in  Maiden  Lane"  un 
folds.  Its  chief  charm  lies  in  its  historic  and  local  color. 

SHEILA  VEDDER.     Frontispiece  in  colors  by  Harrison  Fisher. 

A  love  story  set  in  the  Shetland  Islands. 

Among  the  simple,  homely  folk  who  dwelt  there  Jan  Vedder  was 
raised;  and  to  this  island  came  lovely  Sheila  J  arrow.  Jan  knew,  when 
first  he  beheld  her,  that  she  was  the  one  woman  in  all  the  world  for 
him,  and  to  the  winning  of  her  love  he  set  himself.  The  long  days  of 
summer  by  the  sea,  the  nights  under  the  marvelously  soft  radiance  of 
Shetland  moonlight  passed  in  love-making,  while  with  wonderment 
the  man  and  woman,  alien  in  traditions,  adjusted  themselves  to  each 
other.  And  the  day  came  when  Jan  and  Sheila  wed,  and  then  a 
sweeter  love  story  is  told. 

TRINITY  BELLS.      With  eight  Illustrations  by  C.  M.  Relyea. 

The  story  centers  around  the  life  of  little  Katryntje  Van  Clyffe, 
who,  on  her  return  home  from  a  fashionable  boarding  school,  faces 
poverty  and  heartache.  Stout  of  heart,  she  does  not  permit  herself 
to  become  discouraged  even  at  the  news  of  the  loss  of  her  father  and 
his  ship  "The  Golden  Victory."  The  story  of  Katryntje's  life  was 
interwoven  with  the  music  of  the  Trinity  Bells  which  eventually 
heralded  her  wedding  day. 

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CHARMING  BOOKS  FOR  GIRLS 

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WHEN   PATTY   WENT  TO  COLLEGE,    By  Jean  Webster. 
Illustrated  by  C.  D.  Williams. 

One  of  the  best  stories  of  life  in  a  girl's  college  that  has  ever  been 
written.  It  is  bright,  •whimsical  and  entertaining,  lifelike,  laughable 
and  thoroughly  human. 

JUST    PATTY,    By  Jean  Webster. 
Illustrated  by  C.  M.  Relyea. 

Patty  is  full  of  the  joy  of  living,  fun-loving,  given  to  ingenious 
mischief  for  its  own  sake,  with  a  disregard  for  pretty  convention  which 
is  an  unfailing  source  of  joy  to  her  fellows. 

THE  POOR  LITTLE   RICH   GIRL.    By  Eleanor  Gates. 
With  four  full  page  illustrations. 

This  story  relates  the  experience  of  one  of  those  unfortunate  chil 
dren  whose  early  days  are  passed  in  the  companionship  of  a  governess, 
seldom  seeing  either  parent,  and  famishing  for  natural  love  and  tender 
ness.  A  charming  play  as  dramatized  by  the  author. 

REBECCA   OF  SUNNYBROOK    FARM,       By   Kate   Douglas 
Wiggin. 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  studies  of  childhood — Rebecca's  artistic, 
unusual  and  quaintly  charming  qualities  stand  out  midst  a  circle  of 
austere  New  Englanders.  The  stage  version  is  making  a  phenominal 
dramatic  record. 

NEW  CHRONICLES  OF  REBECCA,    By  Kate  Douglas  Wiggin. 
Illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

Additional  episodes  in  the  girlhood  of  this  delightful  heroine  that 
carry  Rebecca  through  various  stages  to  her  eighteenth  birthday. 

REBECCA  MARY,    By  Annie  Hamilton  Donnell. 
Illustrated  by  Elizabeth  Shippen  Green. 

This  author  possesses  the  rare  gift  of  portraying  al!  the  grotesque 
little  joys  and  sorrows  and  scruples  of  this  very  small  girl  with  a  pa 
thos  that  is  peculiarly  genuine  and  appealing. 

EMMY  LOU;    Her  Book  and  Heart,    By  George  Madden  Martin. 
Illustrated  by  Charles  Louis  Hinton. 

Emmy  Lou  is  irresistibly  lovable,  because  she  is  so  absolutely  real 
She  is  just  a  bewitchingly  innocent,  hugable  little  maid.  The  book  is 
wonderfully  human. 

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BEN    HUR.    A  Tale  of  the  Christ.    By  General  Lew  Wallace 

This  famous  Religious- Historical  Romance  with  its  mighty  story, 
brilliant  pageantry,  thrilling  action  and  deep  religious  reverence, 
hardly  requires  an  outline.  The  whole  world  has  placed  "Ben-Hur" 
on  a  height  cf  pre-eminence  which  no  other  novel  of  its  time  has 
reached.  The  clashing  of  rivalry  and  the  deepest  human  passions, 
the  perfect  reproduction  of  brilliant  Roman  life,  and  the  tense,  fierce 
atmosphere  of  the  arena  have  kept  their  deep  fascination. 

THE    PRINCE  OE  INDIA.    By  General  Lew  Wallace 

A  glowing  romance  of  the  Byzantine  Empire,  showing,  with  vivid 
imagination,  the  possible  forces  behind  the  internal  decay  of  the  Em 
pire  that  hastened  the  fall  of  Constantinople. 

The  foreground  figure  is  the  person  known  to  all  as  the  Wan 
dering  Jew,  at  this  time  appearing  as  the  Prince  cf  India,  with  vast 
stores  of  wealth,  and  is  supposed  to  have  instigated  many  wars  and 
fomented  the  Crusades. 

Mohammed's  Jove  for  the  .Princess  Irene  is  beautifully  wrought 
into  the  story,  and  the  book  as  a  whoJe  is  a  marvelous  work  both 
historically  and  romantically. 

THE  FAIR  GOD.  By  General  Lew  Wallace.  A  Tale  of  the 
Conquest  of  Mexico.  With  Eight  Illustrations  by  Eric  Pape. 

All  the  annals  of  conquest  have  nothing  more  brilliantly  daring 
and  dramatic  than  the  drama  played  in  Mexico  by  Cortes.  As  a 
dazzling  picture  of  Mexico  and  the  Montezumas  it  leaves  nothing  to 
be  desired. 

The  artisi  has  caught  with  rare  enthusiasm  the  spirit  of  the 
Spanish  conquerors  of  Mexico,  its  beauty  and  glory  and  romance. 

TARRY  THOU  TILL  I  COME  or,  Salathiel,  the  Wandering 
Jew.  By  George  Croly.  With  twenty  illustrations  by  T.  de  Thulstrup 

A  historical  novel,  dealing  with  the  momentous  events  that  oc 
curred,  chiefly  in  Palestine,  from  the  time  of  the  Crucifixion  to  the 
destruction  of  Jerusalem, 

The  book,  as  a  story,  is  rep'iete  with  Oriental  charm  and  richness, 
and  the  character  drawing  is  marvelous.  No  other  novel  ever  written 
has  portrayed  with  such  vividness  the  events  that  convulsed  Rome 
and  destroyed  Jerusalem  in  the  early  days  of  Christanity. 

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NOVELS    OF   SOUTHERN    LIFE 

By  THOMAS  DIXON,JR. 

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THE   LEOPARD'S   SPOTS:        A    Story   of   the    White    Man's 
Burden,  1865-1900.    With  illustrations  by  C.  D.  Williams. 

A  tale  of  the  South  about  the  dramatic  events  of  Destruction. 
Reconstruction  and  Upbuilding.  The  work  is  able  and  eloquent  and 
the  verifiable  events  of  history  are  followed  closely  in  the  develop 
ment  of  a  story  full  of  struggle. 

THE   CLANSMAN.    With  illustrations  by  Arthur  I.  Keller. 

While  not  connected  with  it  in  any  way,  this  is  a  companion  vol 
ume  to  the  author's  "epoch-making"  story  The  Leopard' s  Spots.  It 
is  a  novel  with  a  great  deal  to  it,  and  which  very  properly  is  going  to 
interest  many  thousands  of  readers.  *  *  *  It  is,  first  of  all,  a  forceful, 
dramatic,  absorbing  love  story,  with  a  sequence  of  events  so  surprising 
that  one  is  prepared  for  the  fact  that  much  of  it  is  fouuded  on  actual 
happenings;  but  Mr.  Dixon  has,  as  before,  a  deeper  purpose — he  has 
aimed  to  show  that  the  original  formers  of  the  Ku  Klux  Klan  were 
modern  knights  errant  taking  the  only  means  at  hand  to  right 
intolerable  wrongs. 

THE    TRAITOR.    A  Story  of  the  Fall  of  the  Invisible  Empire. 
Illustrations  by  C.  D.  Williams. 

The  third  and  last  book  in  this  remarkable  trilogy  of  novels  relat 
ing  to  Southern  Reconstruction.  It  is  a  thrilling  story  of  love,  ad 
venture,  treason,  and  the  United  States  Secret  Service  dealing  with 
the  decline  and  fall  of  the  Ku  Klux  Klan. 

COMRADES.    Illustrations  by  C.  D.  WDliams. 

A  novel  dealing  with  the  establishment  of  a  Socialistic  Colony 
upon  a  deserted  island  off  the  coast  of  California.  The  way  of  dis 
illusionment  is  the  course  over  which  Mr.  Dixon  conducts  the  reader. 

THE  ONE  WOMAN.    A  Story  of  Modern  Utopia.  . 

A  love  story  and  character  study  of  three  Ftrong  men  and  two  fas 
cinating  women.  In  swift,  unified,  and  dramatic  action,  we  see  So 
cialism  a  deadly  force,  in  the  hour  of  the  eclipse  of  Faith,  destroying 
the  home  life  and  weakening  the  fiber  of  Anglo  Saxon  manhood. 

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THE  NOVELS  OF 

STEWART   EDWARD  WHITE 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME.  Illustrated  by  Lajaren  A.  Hilier 

The  romance  of  the  son  of  "The  Riverman."  The  young  college 
hero  goes  into  the  lumber  camp,  is  antagonized  by  "graft"  and  comes 
into  the  romance  of  his  life. 
ARIZONA  NIGHTS.  Illus.  and  cover  inlay  by  N.  C.  Wyeth. 

A  series  of  spirited  tales  emphasizing  some  phases  of  the  life 
of  the  ranch,  plains  and  desert.    A  masterpiece. 
THE  BLAZED   TRAIL.  With  illustrations  by  Thomas  Fogarty. 

A  wholesome  story  with  gleams  of  humor,  telling  of  a  young 
man  who  blazed  his  way  to  fortune  through  the  heart  of  the  Mich 
igan  pines. 
THE  CLAIM  JUMPERS.    A  Romance. 

The  tenderfoot  manager  of  a  mine  in  a  lonesome  gulch  of  the 
Black  Hills  has  a  hard  time  of  it,  but  "wins  out"  in  more  ways  than, 
one. 
CONJUROR'S     HOUSE.    Illustrated  Theatrical  Edition. 

Dramatized  under  the    title   of  "The   Call  of    the   North." 

"Conjuror's  House  is  a  Hudson  Bay  trading  post  where  the 
head  factor  is  the  absolute  lord.    A  young  fellow  risked  his  life  and 
won  a  bride  on  this  forbidden  land. 
THE  MAGIC  FOREST.    A  Modern  Fairy  Tale.    Illustrated. 

The  sympathetic  way  in  which  the  children  of  the  wild  and 
their  life  is  treated  could  only  belong  to  one  who  is  in  love  with  the 
forest  and  open  air.    Based  on  fact 
THE  RIVERMAN.    Illus.  by  N.  C.  Wyeth  and  C.  Underwood. 

The  story  of  a  man's  fight  against  a  river  and  of  a  struggle 
between  honesty  and  grit  on  the  one  side,  and  dishonesty  and 
shrewdness  on  the  other. 
THE  SILENT  PLACES.  Illustrations  by  Philip  R.  Goodwin. 

The  wonders  of  the  northern  forests,  the  heights  of  feminine 
devotion,  and  masculine  power,  the  intelligence  of  the  Caucasian 
and  the  instinct  of  the  Indian,  are  all  finely  drawn  in  this  story. 
THE  WESTERNERS. 

A  story  of  the  Black  Hills  that  is  justly  placed  among  the 
best  American  novels.  It  portrays  the  life  of  the  new  West  as  no 
other  book  has  done  in  recent  years. 

THE    MYSTERY.  In  collaboration  with  Samuel  Hopkins  Adams 
With  illustrations  by  Will  Crawford. 

The  disappearance  of  three  successive  crews  from  the  stout 
ship  ''Laughing  Lass"  in  mid-Pacific,  is  a  mystery  weird  and  inscrut 
able.  In  the  solution,  there  is  a  story  of  the  most  exciting  voyage 
that  man  ever  undertook. 

GROSSET  &   DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


TITLES   SELECTED   FROM 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAFS  LIST 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.      Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list 

THE  SILENT  CALL.    By    Edwin    Milton   Royle.     Illustrated 
with  scenes  from  the  play. 

The  hero  of  this  story  is  the  Squaw  Man's  son.  He  has 
been  taken  to  England,  but  spurns  conventional  life  for  the  sake 
of  the  untamed  West  and  a  girl's  pretty  face. 

JOHN  MARCH,    SOUTHERNER.    By  George  \V.  Cable. 

A  story  of  the  pretty  women  and  spirited  men  of  the  South. 
As  fragrant  in  sentiment  as  a  sprig  of  magnolia,  and  as  full  of 
mystery  and  racial  troubles  as  any  romance  of  "after  the  war" 
days. 

MR.  JUSTICE  RAFFLES.    By  E.  W.  Hornung. 

This  engaging  rascal  is  found  helping  a  young  cricket  player 
out  of  the  toils  of  a  money  shark.  Novel  in  plot,  thrilling  and 
amusing. 

FORTY  MINUTES  LATE.  By  F.  Hopkinson  Smith.  Illustrated 
by  S.  M.  Chase. 

Delightfully  human  stories  of  every  day  happenings;  of  a 
lecturer's  laughable  experience  because  he's  late,  a  young  woman's 
excursion  into  the  stock  market,  etc. 

OLD  LADY  NUMBER  31.    By  Louise  Forsslund. 

A  heart-warming  story  of  American  rural  life,  telling  of  the 
adventures  of  an  old  couple  in  an  old  folk's  home,  their  sunny, 
philosophical  acceptance  of  misfortune  and  ultimate  prosperity. 

THE  HUSBAND'S  STORY.    By  David  Graham  Phillips. 

A  story  that  has  given  all  Europe  rxs  well  as  all  America  much 
food  for  thought.  A  young  couple  begin  life  in  humble  circum 
stances  and  rise  in  worldly  matters  until  the  husband  is  enormously 
rich— the  wife  in  the  most  aristocratic  European  society— but  at  the 
price  of  their  happiness. 

THE  TRAIL  OF  NINETY- EIGHT.      By  Robert  W.  Service. 
Illustrated  by  Maynard  Dixon. 

One  of  the  best  stories  of  "Vagabondia"  ever  written,  and 
one  of  the  most  accurate  and  picturesque  descriptions  of  the  stam 
pede  of  gold  seekers  to  thf.  iTukon.  The  love  story  embedded  in 
the  narrative  is  strikingly  original. 

Ask  for  compete  free  list  of  G.  &  D.  Popular  Copyrighted  Fiction 

GROSSET  &   DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


JOHN  FOX,  JR'S. 

STORIES  OF  THE  KENTUCKY  MOUNTAINS 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.       Ask  for  Grosset  and  Dunlap's  list 

THE  TRAIL    OF   THE    LONESOME   PINE. 
Illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 


The  "lonesome  pine"  from  which  the 
story  takes  its  name  was  a  tall  tree  that 
stood  in  solitary  splendor  on  a  mountain 
top.  The  fame  of  the  pine  lured  a  young 
engineer  through  Kentucky  to  catch  the 
trail,  and  when  he  finally  climbed  to  its 
shelter  he  found  not  only  the  pine  but  the 
footprints  of  a  girl.  And  the  girl  proved 
to  be  lovely,  piquant,  and  the  trail  of 
these  girlish  foot-prints  led  the  young 
engineer  a  madder  chase  than  "the  trail 
of  the  lonesome  pine." 

THE     LITTLE    SHEPHERD    OF    KINGDOM     COME 

Illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

This  is  a  story  of  Kentucky,  in  a  settlement  known  as  "King 
dom  Come."  It  is  a  life  rude,  semi-barbarous;  but  natural 
and  honest,  from  which  often  springs  the  flower  of  civilization. 

"  Chad."  the  "little  shepherd"  did  not  know  who  he  was  nor 
whence  he  came — he  had  just  wandered  from  door  to  door  since 
early  childhood,  seeking  shelter  with  kindly  mountaineers  who 
gladly  fathered  and  mothered  this  waif  about  whom  there  was 
such  a  mystery — a  charming  waif,  by  the  way,  who  could  play 
the  banjo  better  that  anyone  else  in  the  mountains. 

A  KNIGHT   OF  THE    CUMBERLAND. 
Illustrated    by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

The  scenes  are  laid  along  the  waters  of  the  Cumberland' 
the  lair  of  moonshiner  and  feudsman.  The  knight  is  a  moon 
shiner's  son,  and  the  heroine  a  beautiful  girl  prrversely  chris 
tened  "The  Blight."  Two  impetuous  young  Southerners'  fall 
under  the  spell  of  "The  Blight's  "  charms  and  she  learns  what 
a  large  part  jealousy  and  pistols  have  in  the  love  making  of  the 
mountaineers. 

Included  in  this  volume  is  "Hell  fer-Sartain"  and  other 
stories,  some  of  Mr.  Fox's  most  entertaining  Cumberland  valley 
narratives. 

Ask  for  comfiletr.  -fret  list  of  G.  &  D.  Popular  Copyrighted  Fiction 


GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WFST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


B.  M.  Bower's  Novels 

Thrilling  Western  Romances 

Large  12  mos.  Handsomely  bound  in  cloth.      Illustrated 

CHIP,  OF  THE  FLYING  U 

A  breezy  wholesome  tale,  wherein  the  love  affairs  of  Chip  and 
Delia  Whitman  are  charmingly  and  humorously  told.  Chip's 
jealousy  of  Dr.  Cecil  Grantham,  who  turns  out  to  be  a  big.  blue 
eyed  young  woman  is  very  amusing.  A  clever,  realistic  story  of 
the  American  Cow-puncher. 

THE  HAPPY  FAMILY 

A  lively  and  amusing  story,  dealing  with  the  adventures  of 
eighteen  jovial,  big  hearted  Montana  cowboys.  Foremost  amongst 
them,  we  find  Ananias  Green,  known  as  Andy,  whose  imaginatiye 
powers  cause  many  lively  and  exciting  adventures, 

HER  PRAIRIE  KNIGHT 

A  realistic  story  of  the  plains,  describing  a  gay  party  of  Eas 
terners  who  exchange  a  cottage  at  Newport  for  the  rough  homeli 
ness  of  a  Montana  ranch-house.  The  merry-hearted  cowboys,  the 
fascinating  Beatrice,  and  the  effusive  Sir  Redmond,  become  living, 
breathing  personalities. 

THE  RANGE  DWELLERS 

Here  are  everyday,  genuine  cowboys,  just  as  they  really  exist 
Spirited  action,  a  range  feud  between  two  families,  and  a  Romeo 
and  Juliet  courtship  make  this  a  bright,  jolly,  entertaining  story, 
without  a  dull  page. 

THE   LURE  OF  DIM  TRAILS 

A  vivid  portrayal  of  the  experience  of  an  Eastern  author, 
among  the  cowboys  of  the  West,  in  search  of  "local  color"  for  a 
new  novel.  "Bud"  Thmrston  learns  many  a  lesson  while  following 
"the  lure  of  the  dim  trails"  but  the  hardest,  and  probably  the  most 
•welcome,  is  that  of  love. 
THE  LONESOME  TRAIL 

"Weary"  Davidson  leaves  the  ranch  for  Portland,  where  con 
ventional  city  life  palls  on  him.  A  little  branch  of  sage  brush, 
pungent  with  the  atmosphere  of  the  prairie,  and  the  recollection  of 
a  pair  of  large  brown  eyes  soon  compel  his  return.  A  wholesome 
love  story, 

THE  LONG  SHADOW 

A  vigorous  Western  story,  sparkling  with7  the  free,  outdoor, 
life  of  a  mountain  ranch.  Its  scenes  shift  rapidly  and  its  actors  play 
the  game  of  life  fearlessly  and  like  men.  It  is  a  fine  love  story  from 
start  to  finish. 

Ask  for  a  complete  free  list  of  G.  &  D.  Popular  Copyrighted  Fiction. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26rH  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


THE    NOVELS    OF 

CLARA    LOUISE     BURNHAM 


May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.      Ask  for  Grosset  and  Dunlap's  list. 

JEWEL:  A  Chapter  in  Her  Life. 
Illustrated  by  Maude  and  Genevieve  Cowles. 

A  sweet,  dainty  story,  breathing  the  doctrine  of  love  and  patienct 
and  sweet  nature  and  cheerfulness. 

JEWEL'S   STORY  BOOK. 
Illustrated  by  Albert  Schmitt. 

A  sequel  to  "Jewel"  and  equally  enjoyable. 
CLEVER  BETSY. 
Illustrated  by  Rose  O'Neill. 

The  "Clever  Betsy"  was  a  boat — named  for  the  unyielding  spin 
ster  whom  the  captain  hoped  to  marry.  Through  the  two  Betsys  a 
clever  group  of  people  are  introduced  to  the  reader. 

SWEET  CLOVER:    A  Romance  of  the  White  City. 

A  story  of  Chicago  at  the  time  of  the  World's  Fair.  A  sweet  hu 
man  story  that  touches  the  heart. 

THE  OPENED  SHUTTERS. 
Frontispiece  by  Harrison  Fisher. 

A  summer  haunt  on  an  island  in  Casco  Bay  is  the  background 
for  this  romance.  A  beautiful  woman,  at  discord  with  life,  is  brought 
to  realize,  by  her  new  friends,  that  she  may  open  the  shutters  of  her 
soul  to  the  blessed  sunlight  of  joy  by  casting  aside  vanity  and  self 
love.  A  delicately  humorous  work  with  a  lofty  motive  underlying  it  all. 

THE   RIGHT  PRINCESS. 

An  amusing  story,  opening  at  a  fashionable  Long  Island  resort, 
where  a  stately  Englishwoman  employs  a  forcible  New  England 
housekeeper  to  serve  in  her  interesting  home.  How  types  so  widely 
apart  react  on  each  other's  lives,  all  to  ultimate  good,  makes  a  storj 
both  humorous  and  rich  in  sentiment. 

THE   LEAVEN  OF  LOVE. 
Frontispiece  by  Harrison  Fisher. 

At  a  Southern  California  resort  a  world-weary  woman,  young  and 
beautiful  but  disillusioned,  meets  a  girl  who  has  learned  the  art  of 
living—of  tasting  life  in  all  its  richness,  opulence  and  joy.  The  story 
hinges  upon  the  change  wrought  in  the  soul  of  the  blase  woman  by 
this  glimpse  into  a  cheery  life. 

AsJt  for  compete  free  list  of  G.  &  D.  Popular  Copyrighted.  Fiction 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.  ,  NEW  YORK 


LOUIS  TRACY'S 

CAPTIVATING  AND  EXHILARATING  ROMANCES 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.       Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list 

CYNTHIA;S      CHAUFFEUR.  Illustrated  by  Howard  Chandler 
Christy. 

A  pretty  American  girl  in  London  is  touring  in  a  car  with 
a  chauffeur  whose  identity  puzzles  her.  An  amusing  mystery. 

THE    STOWAWAY    GIRL.     Illustrated  by  Nesbitt  Benson. 

A  shipwreck,  a  lovely  girl  stowaway,  a  rascally  captain,  a 
fascinating  officer,  and  thrilling  adventures  in  South  Seas. 

THE  CAPTATN  OF  THE  KANSAS. 

Love  and  the  salt  sea,  a  helpless  ship  whii'ed  into  the  hands 
of  cannibals,  desperate  fighting  and  a  tender  romance. 

THE     MESSAGE.    Illustrated  by  Joseph  Cummings  Chase. 

A  bit  of  parchment  found  in  the  figurehead  of  an  old  ves 
sel  tells  of  a  buned  treasure.  A  thriving  mystery  develops. 

THE  FILLAR  OF   LIGHT. 

The  pillar  thus  designated  was  a  lighthouse,  and  the  author 
tells  with  exciting  detail  the  terrible  dilemma  of  its  cut-off  in 
habitants. 

THE    WHEEL    O'FORTUNE.      With   illustrations   by  James 
Montgomery  Flagg. 

The  story  deals  with  the  rinding  of  a  papyrus  containing 
the  particulars  of  some  of  the  treasures  of  the  Queen  of  Sheba. 

A    SON  OF    THE   IMMORTALS.       Elustrated     by    Howard 
Chandler  Christy. 

A  young  American  is  proclaimed  king  of  a  little  Balkan 
Kingdom,  and  a  pretty  Parisian  art  student  is  the  power  behind 
the  throne. 

THE    WINGS    OF  THE  MORNING. 

A  sort  of  Robinson  Crusoe  redivivus  with  modern  settings 
and  a  very  pretty  love  story  added.  The  hero  and  heroine,  are 
the  only  survivors  of  a  wreck,  and  have  many  thrilling  adventures 
on  their  desert  island. 

Ask  for  complete  free  list  of  G.  &  D.  Popular  Copyrighted  Fiction 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


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